


Paper Tiger, Paper Swords

by MatchstickAmmonite



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aesir Homeworld, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asgard, Avengers in Asgard (sort of), F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Genderfluid Loki, Internalized racism, Jotnar Are Intersex, Loki Has Issues, Loki Pretending to be Odin, Loki Redemption, Loki's Self-Hatred and Despair, Loki-centric, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, PTSD, Past Torture, Political Drama, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Sibling Rivalry, The Nine Realms, Thor Is Not Stupid, Unreliable Narrator, War, Warning: Loki, frigga is alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 91,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchstickAmmonite/pseuds/MatchstickAmmonite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post T:TDW. While hiding from the courts in disguise as Odin, Loki attempts to sever his ties with Asgard only to find himself drawn deep into an intergalactic war.</p>
<p>A character portrait of Asgard's least favorite son, set against a complex political and interpersonal background.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eulogy

**Author's Note:**

> *AU—I have taken some artistic license with certain worldbuilding details, most notably the fabrication of an Aesir “homeworld”, but also small elements of Aesir funeral practices and the contents of Odin's trophy room. All in all I have tried to remain true to the Cinematic Universe's tone and kept most other details as they appear in the films.
> 
>  
> 
> *Canon divergent (in backstory)—Odin judged that the Aether should be destroyed while still confined within a weak mortal host. Thor took issue with this and broke Loki out of prison early. They were in the process of escape when Malekith attacked.

Preamble

A lie, an absent musing, and some thoughts.

 

 

Like any good sabotage, staging one's own defeat offers two unique advantages. In the case of self-annihilation: one, that most people are disinclined to believe anyone lacks enough self-esteem to rig their own humiliation—good for me, I suppose—and two, that since adopting this tactic as my primary weapon, I have never met anyone able to look up from reveling in my defeat long enough to see the ruse.

To succeed in this ploy one has to know either what their target hates or what their target wants most in all the world. When you dangle hate or love in front of someone, they tend to lose all sense of clarity.

Agent Romanoff made a prime target, because I have known women like her—Sif comes to mind foremost—or myself, as it happens, when I am female—so this gave me insight into what lies I needed to weave around her head.

 _Mewling quim_.

 _A pretty balm for after my torture_.

_A patronizing supposition that she, being a woman, must therefore be in love with her male counterpart._

_Being a woman, her nature is of course soft and she must be aghast at the blood on her hands._

You see what I mean?

Romanoff, used to misogynistic male-shaped enemies, was only too happy to help me carry out my self-defeat. When the game ended, she walked away with the idea that I meant to use Banner against them and, meanwhile, I kept them from finding the tracking beacon her un-beloved Agent Barton sewed into my shirt hem.

Doing this has another advantage. 'What advantage?' I hear you not asking. Well, beyond sabotage's inherently simple children Disbelief and Misdirection, by giving up information through trickery I didn't have to withstand torture at the hands of a people who couldn't regenerate my body overnight.

Sabotage—sabotaging myself, better—works when other tactics do not.

Are you horrified yet?

From the moment Thor snuck into Asgard's dungeon to see me, I knew his ultimatum would end with my defeat. Only someone like Thor would try to recruit a prisoner by telling said prisoner their assistance would merely land him back in his cell. Hmm . . .

Difficult choice, there. Thank you, brother. Let me think on that. Shall I rescue my captors from an approaching enemy who might well set me free, or should I do Asgard a favor for the pleasure of spending the next four thousand years in prison? The mind, as they say, boggles. Really.

What could possibly have been going on in Thor's head? A bizarre, infantile desire not to _trick_ dear Loki? A puerile need to be honest? A fear that hiding this informational tidbit might give poor, naive Loki false hope doomed to be ripped apart when the truth came out that I should be re-imprisoned? Despite Thor and his idiot friends' threats against betraying their cause, from the moment I agreed to the plan I knew the mission had to end with my heroic death. If I didn't want to face either a long life enduring soul-crushing boredom in prison or a short, panicky life on the run, Thor must live and I could not. And Thor—honestly, if Thor didn't deserve to walk straight into a ploy, the cosmos might as well open up under my damned feet and suck me back into the Void.

The last time I meant to ever see the great Thor Odinson came with me humiliated—again—on purpose. Flat on my back, curled up in Thor's embrace, dying from a make-believe poisoned wound that left me with the inexplicable ability to talk despite getting one through the chest. Hating Thor, I played my part with my best so that I could give Thor everything he wanted.

What did I say about hate and love? Here we go again:

I fed him the belief that I still loved him. I surrendered to my rightful place as the younger, unwanted brother who should give his life for the Crown Prince. I gave him a gratifying conclusion, cut no doubt from his darkest inmost hope, that I would just die with whatever honor I had left and leave him and his mother and father alone to go on with their better lives.

Thor and Jane were in a bit of a hurry, so I waited until the Convergence began to risk moving from my unconsecrated site. Give them time to find an opening . . . to, I'll admit, one of only three possible realms.

Asgard, Midgard, Vanaheim. Anywhere else and they could have fun creeping above a drop into either prison or death. Odin-King's empire is not the placid empire helmed by his fathers.

Funny, that. You'd think with a name like Allfather, Odin-King would be . . . I don't know . . . more _father_ to the Nine Realms. Or something. Maybe that's just my own literal interpretation.

Then again, with a name like Liesmith perhaps it's my right to be judgmental. But that's just me. He's got the crown, after all. I don't have a crown.

But that's just me.

 

* * *

 

Paper Tiger, Paper Swords

 

 

 

Chapter 1:

In which I learn that giving one's own eulogy is not all it's cracked up to be. Also, someone is causing trouble on Vorsgard and Thor gives me a present.

 

 

My funeral is not the grand affair one might hope if one were given to this sort of morbid daydreaming. The flowers are nice, and the sunset blazing hot red across the water is a suitably poetic cliché, and there are actually people in the crowd who aren't royal guards. But the banks are sparse, and the flowers aren't really fitting for a villain's pyre. The black stink coming from my boat overwhelms Frigga's spicy perfume although she's standing next to me. Next to _Odin_ who is me. Frigga's mouth is a somber thin line. She is impossibly far away from my reach, even at my side, as we watch me burn. She won't cry. She looks serene.

For all the stench, the flames are beautiful. Red-gold roaring curtains engulf my body—well, sort of my body—in a warm spectral glow. I am cauterized from the Nine Realms.

I am vanished in light.

In truth, I feel less the vindictive sneak watching the proceedings and more a ghost witnessing his last ties to identity—however distasteful that identity might be—go up in flames. I am . . . Loki who is Odin-King who is watching a boat carrying Loki who is dead drift down a river to the end of the world. I am not any person anymore. I am a shadow under a mask.

This close to the pyre boat, I can see through the licking flames that someone has brushed the corpse's hair and painted the dark gray bruises from its skin with colored creams. My face—well, not _my_ face—is ghoulish for its unnatural serenity. An imaginary death-by-poison left imaginary defects, since blotted out as if the fight never really happened. As if I fell asleep in my royal regalia and died. The creams are a petty illusion—no glamors for the dead; oh, no. We must face our ancestors as we are. Well, except for the creams. And, well, the fact that the corpse isn't actually me. But then again the ancestors we're sending him to aren't actually my ancestors, so maybe that's all right.

My skin itches. The mummified cleanness separates me from the thing in the boat, but I still don't want to see the disintegrating face attached to that effigy. I don't want to see the pristine sword clasped in my dead pale hands. (Who's sword _is_ that, by the way? How did that conversation even go? “Ho there, fair citizen! Say, may I have your sword so we can burn it with the Crown Prince's younger brother? It's either that or his books—wasn't much of a warrior, you see, this man we're burning as a warrior.”) I'm afraid that if I see me burning the prickly energy slithering up my chest will go through an alchemical shift when it hits my skull to become manic euphoria, which will make me laugh. I can't laugh at my funeral while I'm wearing Odin's face. The Allfather might not be much of mine, but he'll raise a court riot smirking at his son's death. I can't even _smile_. If I _don't_ smile, the prickling will turn to a black hole instead—it's either flying free while laughing at what I've got or sinking into mire remembering what I've lost, and I'm not going to weep at my own funeral.

I am free. I am unburdened. I am avenged. I am vanished in light.

A lie is only a different kind of truth, after all.

Thor looks less happy about all this than I am, standing on my immediate right—my right-hand, _my_ second-in-command, _my_ heir—with a chiseled blank shadow across his face. His arms are stiff at his sides. His eyes are locked on the receding pyre boat, to the point that he doesn't deign to look at me although I'm sure he can feel me look at him. I wonder if he gave me that sword.

No, best not consider that.

The boat burns. The magic which is supposed to simulate a soul released to the glorious afterlife triggers on schedule; swirling blue sparks lift while, below, the boat and corpse sail on from the rimfall's edge into space. For the impressionable in the crowd this is supposed to signify that I have redeemed myself in death and been lifted up into eternity. For _Thor_ , though . . . I wonder if he's remembering the day I showed him how the trick is done and we took turns immortalizing a toy boat, a fishing float, a dead bird, his left dress boot, and most of our picnic lunch.

Best not think about that either.

I risk a second glance in his direction and the expression on his face twists my stomach. From anyone else I would be comfortable knowing that expression is a mask; Thor doesn't wear masks. It's this as well as his short-sighted honorlust that will make him a terrible king.

I want him to be a terrible king. When I quit the Golden City tonight I want solace in knowing that I will have left them to ruin under a king who thinks leadership means hitting harder than the other fellow.

My skin burns. Hate is a good armor. Hate is an armor made from poisoned thorns, but it's better than no armor at all. Hatred, at least, gives my poison a direction.

Thor watches my pyre until boat and make-believe passenger are fallen into the mists below.

There is a feast afterward. We walk in procession up the glittering silver shoreline with smoke and ash trailing us in a summer breeze. The husks of funeral lanterns are left to swirl in wake in the water, where they will gleam along with the dock's braziers throughout the night until tomorrow morning. No one carries a spirit-globe. Those vibrant glowing spheres are released to join the departed as blessings in Valhalla only in the event that the dead deserve them.

Frigga's deep blue gown cuts a shadow in the growing dark, stark and grave against the shining city. Beside _her_ now, Thor walks with his head bowed while his astrium dress armor winks with undiminishable light. They are joined in muffled silence, mother and son. I am no longer a part of their lives. Odin-King, whose face I wear, is somehow removed from this tie as well. I don't know if they have pushed him—me—aside, or if _I_ have pushed _them_. I don't want to be part of this tapestry that will grow between them following my death. Their threads will go on: mingling, changing, growing. Mine stops short. For my own sake I know I can't be part of their new pattern. I can never weave back in as a scribe with a pretend face or—Nine Godless Realms forbid—stay on as a father and abjectly-celibate husband.

Do that, and I am finished.

Are they glad? They aren't now. They will be.

The palace looms like a gate between worlds, reflecting red against a purpling star-smeared sky. There are long banners shrouding the royal hall, which blazes with a primal chemical heat from one thousand black iron braziers. There are meats, stews, baked bread and blackened bread, tarts and spices and drinks from four different realms, edible decorations, and dancers wearing nothing but gold and magic fire. I ordered this because Odin-King would order it—personally, I'd have preferred to spend the evening thumbing my nose at the warrior's funeral on the balcony of my old suite, with nobody to bother me and the latest thaumatergical journal from Alfheim. That wasn't exactly a option for the after-party, though. _Let's all go to Loki's room and take turns sitting on his balcony reading whatever he's left lying around. He won't mind._

Odin's court sits and Frigga sits and Thor sits once more on my right; I remain standing. All eyes are on me and there is a warm surge at being the hall's center. The last time I stood in this hall I was in chains. Now, I am the High King of Yggdrasil.

Odin's giant ravens flap down to join us—they are illusions, too—and their wingbeats flay the air as they circle to perch beside the throne.

 _My_ throne. My throne, above my high table.

The room hums with coiled energy. Every soul is focused on _me_ , waiting to hear what _I_ have to say. Everyone is silent: Odin's advisers, the proud warrior's council with their crimson capes, the court sorceresses, the lovely noble families in their bright astrium and lavish silks, the lofty stewards and attendants and palace guards . . . and Thor's idiot friends, who watch their ringleader like attentive hounds, trying to pretend they're sorry to see me dead.

This is the last time I will ever see them. Any of them.

What the hell. Let's send me off with a feast.

“Loki,” I say at last into that glorious silence, and my words are heavy with grief that is a mask within a mask, “was many things in life, but perhaps never what he wished to be.” I say it because this is what Odin would say. Easier if I could play-act Odin's shame rather than his summary. I would rather tear myself separate from my words by attacking me, but now isn't the time for shame. I can't hide in lies. What he knew about me Frigga would know—and I would rather eulogize myself than listen to what Frigga or Thor might have to say.

This is what Odin would tell his gleaming, golden court:

“Loki looked up to his brother the Crown Prince. Despite a preference for studying his books over swinging a sword, he was always quick to follow Thor whenever my older son proposed some ill-conceived adventure that inevitably led the two of them into battle. I cannot fail to remember a time when my sons were off writing their destinies across the Nine Realms. Although in the end he set himself as the enemy of Asgard perhaps it is fitting, then, that it was through his brother the Crown Prince that Loki found redemption. Loki died with blade in hand, fighting to defend Asgard's future king. It is for this reason that he sups with my father tonight. Let us join their feast of honor here. May our ancestors ever lead us onward into glory, for surely even Loki Odinson found his in remembering his family. We will remember him in turn.”

I pick up Odin's golden goblet and drink his fine sweet wine. The court follows suit. Frigga squeezes the fingers of my free hand. Then there is food and music, so I don't have to talk to the people beside me.

I am grateful when Svaldir Eimrson approaches the high table to beg my ear.

“Speak, councilor,” I say in a low voice. Thor has wandered off for the moment; he wanted air, I think, and I'm not feeling well enough to have Frigga join us. Frigga, who is supposed to be my wife.

“Allfather.” Svaldir bows and he, also, seems to have a mind for the discreet as the bow is short to the point of awkward. As the Chief Councilor for Interrealm Affairs, Svaldir is a barrel-chested man with a booming voice and grandfatherly demeanor. He is usually the one to begin a council meeting by dryly announcing his fellows' names, as if a hammer-hard reminder about their proud heritage will force them to act like adults. It's disconcerting having the old man creep up to me during my own funeral feast liked a kicked apprentice.

“Speak _freely_ , councilor. My son will not emerge from beyond the flames if we forsake our duties this one night.”

Svaldir jerks a second bow, eyes low for my sake. My-Loki, not my-Odin-King. I knew there was a reason I liked him.

“I am sorry to bother your majesty,” he murmurs. The councilor glances around me, but Frigga does not look up. “There has been an incident in the Red Tower. We have lost contact with our outpost on Vorsgard.”

“Can you not have one of our sorceresses fix the connection?” Odin would preamble with Would you bother me with this? but I haven't the heart to do it. As the younger son I have only gotten a chance to preside over court once before, as Prince Regent who-is-called-King-in-his-father's-stead, so I'm not about to scoff this opportunity for all its brevity and ill-timing. “Ilda perhaps. She enjoys working with long-distance pararealm projections.”

From the way his eyes dart again toward Frigga and his mouth pulls back in a self-deprecating frown, I can tell this is not the answer he wanted to hear.

“No, sir,” Svaldir says. “I'm afraid I have not made myself clear. The trouble is not the connection. The trouble is on Vorsgard. No one at the outpost has responded to our demand for a report.”

Heat sizzles in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut. The news _is_ serious enough to bother a king at his son's funeral, but _of course_ even my death is less important than whatever mischief other people are causing. Of _course_ they had to pick today of all days for—for—

“What does Heimdall have to say?” I demand. “Has this been brought to his attention? Has he seen what the trouble is?”

Svaldir is shaking his head. “The old enchantments were never stripped from the citystates after Vorsgard was abandoned. Heimdall cannot see any of what goes on inside the wards.”

Of course not. Odin-King wouldn't waste resources stripping wards from a dead planet.

“Send a small containment force,” I say. “Have Ilda go with them. If the trouble is communication she will resolve the issue. If not, I want the traitors brought back to Asgard for public execution. There will be no second colony on Vorsgard.”

Svaldir slaps his ribcage with a fist and bows himself away.

Frigga touches my arm in gentle inquiry. I haven't the strength to take her hand, but neither do I flinch from her.

I do not like causing Frigga pain.

“A small matter,” I say, joining her cover in trying to memorize the whirling, fire-clad performers. Better that than speaking to each other. “Of little import.”

We keep our silence and our masks intact. Thor does not reappear until the night has wound to a drunken, sloppy orgy that has nothing to do with me at all: people shouting oaths at each other, scraping out from the desecrated tables to back up oaths with fists or weaponry, laughing, spilling or stealing drinks as they break away in groups to carry on with their lives. The dancers are long gone. Frigga has retired to bed. I don't know what I'm waiting for in watching my name be forgotten—nobody knows I'm here, nobody will stagger up to me this late in the night to say, Ah-ho, your royal majesty, I didn't want to wander off without confessing that I loved your son and will miss him for ever!

This is how Thor finds me when he requests a moment alone with my . . . I'll admit . . . partially sloshed majesty.

“Let us wait,” I tell him, “until the hall is cleared.” So we while the remaining minutes as the servants remove tables and recover unused food and drink for new life with the city's poorest; the few lingering nobles are helped to sleep off their over-enthusiastic mourning; the unconscious common folk dragged away by less-indulging guards. Daybreak pierces the long hall by the time we are alone. Blue dawn banishes the last fading traces where my life existed and cold, clear sunrise scours Odin-King's hall free from my ghost. Dawn will never break again for Loki.

“I wanted to speak with you today, my son,” I tell the golden-haired glory of Asgard who liked to pretend he was my brother. “I did not expect to do so this early.”

“I apologize for my uncouth disappearance last night, Allfather. I had much on my mind.” Thor holds a lovingly perfect bow, with one knee on the floor and his head down, his red warrior's cape fanned out behind him.

“As did we all. I have been considering your role in this catastrophe: breaking a convicted prisoner from the dungeon, committing treason to smuggle a mortal from the city into Svartalfheim and so risking the lives of every being in the Nine Realms—” I expect Thor to start shouting, or arguing with me that he couldn't let Jane die whether or not her death would let us bury the Aether farther from the Dark Elves' grasp. He doesn't, though. He listens to Odin-King extol his crimes with his handsome face composed in quiet sobriety, head still down. He doesn't stand up. He doesn't break in to remind me that by drawing Malekith out from hiding he—and he alone—finally finished the war his grandfather began. His eyes are on the floor. His somber patience is eerie.

Thor is different.

Have I been remembering him wrong? All the years I spent drifting in the Void have changed my memories. Frigga and I spoke while I was in prison, and I am not sure any more what is real and what is an illusion. I am coming to terms with the truth that I am probably mad. I can feel madness lingering in the deep places of my mind.

No, I am not remembering him wrong. This is right. Thor is different from the Thor I knew.

And no, it isn't the drink that makes me think so.

“—ending the Dark Elves' threat for once and all,” I finish, because he won't. Thor's brow softens although he still doesn't look up; yes, he wonders—in fair composure, even—if he is not about to be punished.

I want to laugh. A black hole opens behind my heart. The crazed euphoria pushes at my throat, trying to climb up into a grin. The drink almost lets it.

This lie I was about to say is supposed to be my parting blow. _Isn't that what I am? Isn't that what I do?_ A liar. And this shining beloved cretin has stolen even this from me.

Very well. Asgard will have its king. Let Thor be king. I have no more lies to give him. We will face each other this one last time in poisoned, unadulterated truth.

The dangerous pressure is back. _Don't you dare smile!_

I am rigid, one hand gripping his golden spear tight enough that my hand aches. Laugh, or weep.

Possibly Thor mistakes my hostile demeanor for disappointment. All right. I can improvise around that.

“The last time you stood before me having defied my orders,” I, Odin-King who is Allfather tell him, “I stripped you of all titles and banished you to a backward realm to learn humility. Today, you stand before me having won the war my father could not but it is humility I see in your eyes.”

He looks up because he still has no ability to mask himself. At least he stays kneeling.

“Every realm on the World Tree witnessed you defeat Malekith in single combat,” I say to that quiet somber face, “yet you will not boast of it and you do not defend yourself from my charges. Is this my son I am facing, or his shell?”

“I admit I defied your orders.” Thor's head goes down again, at last. He remembers himself too late. “I did so because it was right, but I will accept whatever punishments you deem appropriate.” Again, the eerie calm. Again, the sturdy composure.

“Every soul in my empire,” I say, “saw you offer your life to save the universe from darkness.” I take a breath. “What can Asgard offer its new king in return?”

Thor stares at his bent knee. “My life.” He stands up without permission. His unmasked brow is tight, and while he meets my eye his emotions run wild across his face. “Father, I cannot be King of Asgard. I will protect Asgard and all the realms with my last and every breath but I cannot serve from that chair—” He makes his speech without pause, which tells me that he has been rehearsing exactly this from the moment he asked for an audience. He tells me that I—Loki—of all people deserved the throne above him. That I was better suited to be king. That I had the right of him from the start, that he is not fit to legislate and would serve Asgard better as a field commander than a ruler. He vows that this is a decision he has come to of his own, and that falling in love with a mortal has nothing to do with his abdication.

When I demand to know why, Thor turns my own eulogy against me: that just as the younger brother died with honor, so too will the older brother try to follow _his_ example. Then he holds out his enchanted hammer for me to take.

I taste metal in the back of my throat. That great weapon and all it symbolizes dangles from his foolish grip, and I cannot take it. Odin-King—the _real_ Odin-King—could take it, but for my lack whatever passed between us in that moment is gone. I can only wave him off, filling his head with more fluff and deceit.

 _Liesmith_.

I am only a shadow under a mask. Even now, I am too weak to lift that hammer.

If I try to take it, he'll know. If I try to take it, he'll attack me with it.

There is nothing I can do but whisper more falsehoods in his ear, making him believe that he has made his father proud even as Thor abandons Asgard to who knows what fate should Odin-King vanish without a trace. And he _will_ vanish without a trace once I have what I came to take.

“Thank you,” I say to his shadow once he is gone. I am vindicated at last, after death. No, Odin's son is _not_ fit to be king.

What then?

Let him go. Or let him change his mind and return. Let Thor chafe as king or let him start a civil war. I don't care. We all have choices to make, and Asgard is no longer a part of mine.

I cannot feel my body, with or without the mask. I am glad for the drink. This is my anesthetic.

As morning wheels upward and the rightful King walks boldly straight out the palace gates, I retire at last for the royal hall. My funeral is done. My good-byes have been made—such that they were. I must gather whatever I wish to take with me, and after that . . .

After that—

 

Asgard's weapons vault.

 


	2. Transcendence

 

 

The drink settles in by the time I make it to my suite. I am weightless, the air is heavy, my coat is too warm, and every move I make is of extreme importance.

It's funny—hysterical _—_ the way feelings can wash upon a person caught unawares: my suite has been dusted, and it's this homey, cared for surprise that hits me in a wave when I swim through the double doors. I am freer than I have been in some years now, as if I could drift sideways and think myself to bed. Warmth lives in these walls. The light is peaceable. There are no shadows here. There will be no pain if I sleep.

This is _my_ home. That is _my_ entertaining room. There is _my_ locked door to _my_ bedchamber. Friendly, scallop-legged tables bask in their old spots and my satisfied, overflowing bookshelves wink motionlessly from the walls in between stately curio cabinets. Each and every happy surface or article of furniture is polished and new as if I had only gone away to visit Midgard. They are all waiting where they should be, unchanged. Each one is a soap bubble connection between now and years ago from now.

These rooms, you know, are the rooms I used to own before I tried to kill myself.

This is the suite-that-was. This is the suite-that-might-have-been. This is where I used to belong.

. . . I think—honestly I think . . . that I am a little drunk.

I sit down on the footstool to work off my boots, which takes far more effort than it should with time slowed to half speed. The marble floor is almost too much to look at, with its blurred sweeping lines merging and reforming from one square to the next. I have to look at the plain black rug to keep my head straight. When I stand, the maze-y stone is pleasantly cool against my bare feet. It's nice stone. Not rough, unfeeling stone.

My bedroom door is still protected by eight separate enchantments, because as a self-important little shit this seemed like a good idea at the time. When I finally get the things unlocked I have to cling to the door to keep from falling through.

Inside, the air smells like a spoiled wretch's naïve, self-pitying desperation if I were to tell you the truth.

Safe. Checking twice to make sure I _am_ safe.

That someone's dusted outside concerns me much as I can be concerned from within my internal downy blanket; I suspect, as a distant theoretical-fear, that these are Frigga's orders. Loose-limbed, I slough through setting up a perimeter ward with an alarm. The magic fizzles and sparks before catching hold. Which is _hilarious_.

I feel, in truth, pretty damn good for a dead person.

I don't want to waste this feeling. I'm going to waste this feeling if I get started sorting what I want to take with me, and right now that's the worst thing I can do. Packing is out. The weapons vault is out. I think . . . I _think_ . . . I can risk cleaning myself up a little. I haven't been able to get properly clean in _years_ , not since . . . well, actually, not since the last time I lived in this suite.

The lights in my washroom are butter-yellow, rich and soft. My legs don't want to stay straight. My knees could be buckled with a teaspoon. I bow to nature with my chin dropping on my chest, my head slack on my neck for the thrill of seeing the world tip upside down. I have been replaced inside and out with glowy vibrancy.

Dropping the illusion which masks me as the worthy Odin Allfather, I duck my head as a green gold aurora sears my eyes with more blazing light. My hands grow from Odin's veined weathered hands. My own clothing emerges poorer, cruder, but mine. _Really_ mine.

In the washroom mirror I look ghastly, ghoulish, sickly, ill. Under the pristine globe lamps my face is burnt; my eyes are sunken; I am paste slapped over a boney outline. There is a weight above my head that stretches from one horizon to the next, but right now I can't see it and—better—can't feel it. The air should be this heavy always. I am made from cloudstuff.

No; what did I s. . . ? I am _vanished in light_.

The shower is nice. Cold water is nice. Hot water is nice. The tub is nice. Every surface is welcoming. Every texture is comfortable. Drying off is nice. The slick marble floor is biting under my feet and this is nice; the Alfheimr rug is a fuzzy warmth and this is nice, too. Just walking around feels good. My robe is dusty, but good. My chair—my familiar unaltered chair which hasn't moved from the spot by my heavy curtained window—is a good place to sit.

With my eyes closed and my neck against the hardwood back, I don't have to do anything or see anything, and being alive means nothing except feeling moments sleep by thick as viscous honey that passes through me without catching hold.

By the time I wake, get up, and crawl into my old clothes from my old dressing quarters there is no more glowy vibrancy. I am dull, emotionless lead. The suite surfaces around me—not a poetic _was_ or _might-have-been—_ just an old place full of old, worn-out, dried-up roots. A tomb.

The roots are all dead. What aren't dead need to be sliced free.

I won't bore you with the details of what I chose to pack. Suffice to say that I wanted nothing sentimental. Imagine my perplexion at the nonsense I kept from fifty, one hundred, five hundred years ago. Also, far too clear to me now that everything personal I owned is rubbish. I do not need to fill up my new life with princely rubbish. _Loki_ , I decide, _was a grandiose fool_.

Good _riddance_.

Pairing down my life takes less than an hour. When I am finished I have a small bag which contains nothing of me except tools to keep me alive. There are weapons and necessities for travel, four books on magic less asinine than the rest, and ink for drawing runes. I need nothing else. I want nothing else.

I am almost done hacking off my hair when my suite's perimeter alarm sounds. I snatch my bag and throw on a spell for invisibility, then slip out the double doors into the royal hall. Othgam Svaldismage, Svaldir's runny-faced attendant, is being led to Thor's suite by two guards. They are sixty feet from me, not looking my direction. They couldn't see me if they tried.

Svaldir. Well, Frigga can deal with the high council. She'll be a better king than Thor, at any rate.

Asgard is smeared thin and lackluster when I step out into watery afternoon. The guards and attendants, councilors and war councilors, sorceresses, messengers, and staff are sluggish walking between faded columns or speaking in low voices on the blemish-free antiquated steps as if they, too, are made ghost-like by the passing centuries. Or if they, too, died last night and haven't yet dispersed from their old haunts. They are unreal to me as surely as _they_ cannot see _me_. We pass each other in separate futures.

But then, I always knew we would. Someday.

I _am_ alive and I hate them all. The scholars and the warriors, going about their day as if nothing has changed. The gentry and their nameless staff, hungover but nonplussed. The masons and the prophets and the dancers, who don't mind that the world moves on. The children and the adults, caught up with their own lives. And I hate grandmothers and I hate young strong heroes, who won't remember me in twenty years. I hate old bent-backed men and young women who wear gold in their hair—rich silk-swathed merchants and poor ragged workers, who belong here more than I do—I hate the people lingering by the fountain in Bor's Square, who look like jeweled birds, and the guards marching as shift changes outside the treasury. And I hate the people watching the guards: mothers and infants, a puppet vendor who's laughing at two little boys, and the boys tugging each other out of the way for a better view.

I hate every soul who would be missed.

The weapons vault is buried below several security blocks and an automated sentinel compound. I rebind the illusion that makes me into Odin Allfather and dodge behind a winged statue to dispel my invisibility.

_And_ I hate Odin Allfather. When I am Odin-King, the best protective measures in our realm melts aside. I can parade into the heart of our stronghold with its astral-armored guardians bowing me along. Smiling. Honored to see me.

The guards leave me outside the vault itself. Ahead, habrium walls slanting inward from floor to mid-ceiling turn the corridor into an elongated triangle. The habrium is drab and morose, the color of bruises; along with such morbid surfacing the many deepset alcoves give this place a crypt-like appearance. White grids cut the far wall and what exists of a ceiling—here are the vault's naked teeth. These grids are photo-optical wards, and the light they emit is cursed. Any person entering the vault who isn't known to these wards will trigger the Destroyer. Any person trying to steal what lies here will burn.

Except for Prince Loki.

This place is also called Odin's Trophy Room, so the weapons vault is of _course_ open to Odin's sons that Thor and I can marvel at our father's prowess. This is the place where he keeps every mighty weapon stolen from the hands of his defeated enemies. He used to bring Thor and I back here to tell us tales about his crushing victory over the Frost Giants. Oh, how we _cheered_ when Laufey-King fell. I didn't know it at the time, but the Casket of Ancient Winters wasn't the only prize ransomed from Jotunheim.

I belong in this trophy room, too.

I wonder if Odin Allfather used to spend decades lying awake at night smirking to himself when nobody could see because he had taken, not only the keystone to the Jotun civilization, but Laufey's son as well. I wonder if it gave him pleasure to hear his enemy's whelp calling him _father_.

As soon as I'm clear from the guards' admiring eyesight I kick Odin's hard stride into a jaunty stroll. The corridor could be an open-air market brimming with flowers and summer toys. Everything here is for sale. I lose the Allfather's stately composure for a meandering wile that leads me from one vendor's stall to the next. No one can see me inspecting the wares, but I incline my head anyway to imaginary merchants and smile at imaginary common folk out for a day in the sun. I step aside and open an imaginary gate so a woman laden with Midsummer gifts can usher her small girl into the next shop.

_Your royal highness! Sir! Here we have a lovely Orb of Agamotto! Fancy price—nary a cost to you, sir!_

Ick. The clairvoyance thing is nice, but I don't dare touch the surface. No, I don't want any more gateways between dimensions. I can already feel my skin trying to abandon ship.

_Ah. Moving along, then. Here's a pretty treat: a goblet wreathed in bright orange fire. How about an Eternal Flame?_

Now _what_ am I supposed to do with that? Next!

_An ancient spectacle! Behold, sir, the Tablet of Life and Time!_

Useless. My not-great-grandfather Buri already had some fun with that. The Aesir can tell you. Thanks to him, they can tell you every day for about five thousand years.

_You do know your specialty items, sir! I can see you're a hard man for a sell._

I'm not a man. But do go on.

_Ah-ha. Here is the Warlock's Eye. Mind control is a fad always in season—_

The Warlock's Eye is out. We never got that to work.

_Very well, sir. Here we have a . . ._

The Tesseract glowers up from its alcove.

My insides contract into a small steel point. My blood slows to a thick, slimy gel.

Alone. I am alone.

There is no one in this corridor but me.

I shut my eyes.

There are more alcoves farther ahead, so I turn left and slink onward. My footsteps clank on the stone. They're _my_ footsteps.

I pivot to a stop before what turns out to be a gold armored glove. I recognize what this is, too, and the drowned feeling melts into a vice-like rush behind my eyes so hard I have to smile until my face hurts.

_Ooh. Now_ you're _a shiny toy_

Hidden by the habrium walls, in the vault's mortuary shadows, I lift the Infinity Gauntlet from its luminescent stand. The metal plates are slick and yielding in my grasp; almost too much so. My false face warps like water in the reflective surface but the golden-hued skin is plain—no engravings cheapen the armor into silly excess. The six unadorned jewels blaze like miniature, winking suns.

This weapon is beautiful.

This is a weapon made to be worn. This _wants_ to be worn.

I fumble opening my still-invisible bag, and then the Gauntlet joins my books with a slithering percussive crash.

_Next!_

I've got one more on my list. One more happy plaything to buy from this market filled with flowers.

The Casket of Ancient Winters is right where I know it will be: still revolting blue under a polished facade. The Jotun weapon is weighted with its own failure as the conquered crown for a dying race, but this is coming with me too. Ice and snow is a devastating skill if wielded correctly. Pity only a Frost Giant can use this weapon.

My heart is sweating under my ribs. The curved handles sting my palms when I heft the Casket. Acid prickles up my arms. The Casket's deep cold eats my false Aesir skin without my willing, turning me into a monster under my Odin-mask. I can feel my shape warping, growing cold, as I am replaced with a Loki-shaped horror. I remember what happened the last time I held this weapon, and summon a cooling spell over myself to prevent ice forming a protective barrier between me and now-scorching-hot-Asgard. What would the vault guards think if Odin Allfather left icy footprints?

The forced transformation creeps up my face. My eyes burn. I lose my sense of smell. My vision changes. While I don't miss the musty, muddy, stone-cold air buried so far below the palace, there is a newfound ability hand-in-hand with the lack: when my brain reorients to its new shape, I can see infrared.

I can see where I've paused in place, here and there. I can see my handprints inside the Infinity Gauntlet's alcove. I can see a glowing, ghost-trail hovering behind me—stretching back in time—where my Aesir shape's hot flesh and blood left a tattle-tale path.

It's a good thing the vault doesn't employ Frost Giants as guards.

Oh well.

The Casket goes under my books, so it doesn't hurt my Gauntlet.

A deep voice says, “Your majesty.”

I whip around, back straight, hands rigid at my sides. Through still-Jotun eyes Svaldir's green councilor's cape is blue. The gold-caped vault guards beside him wear light gray. The councilor's dark brown skin is still almost normal—at least, the correct color names I have for Aesir skin seem to fit well enough with what I'm seeing. Both Svaldir and the guards emit radiant living heat that makes my empty sto—

Erm. You know what, never mind.

I am thankful, in every electrified _cell_ of my body, that I kept my Odin-mask up. Another heartbeat and I have illusions constructed to fill the two empty trophy stands, the most obvious behind me and out of sight.

“You have a son and daughter,” I say, to cover what I have been doing with an impression that I'm only snooping around my own vault for sentimental reasons. Not, I don't know: stealing? “All these victories around me, and yet . . . tell me, Councilor, have I failed in the one legacy which matters?”

Svaldir bats not an eyebrow. Skilled politician, he. “Your legacy will take the throne after you, as was always meant. He will be a good king.” Liar. “Beloved, and strong.” True.

He hasn't seen a thing.

“This is the second time you have come to me at personal hours,” I warn him, breathing easier. With the Casket safely in my bag I can feel an inverse transformation creeping down my scalp, reverting me to my usual shape. I am rendered temporarily blind when the spreading acid reaches my eyes. Then, Svaldir is wearing green and I remember what yellow looks like. I adopt Odin-King's fire-and-axes voice. “Please tell me you come with good news.”

Svaldir draws into an apologetic, respectful stance. “There is an emergency meeting in the War Council's Tower. I begged Tyr's pardon; I said that this is something you would wish to oversee. The children are squabbling over what to do in the event that a colony has sprung up on Vorsgard. There's only one Midsummer Beast, and not enough sticks to whack sweets from it.”

“News from the investigation?”

“None. Our finest have only been deployed as of two hours since, by approximate count. Ilda is with them as per your command.” He tucks his hands behind his back in a gesture of off-the-record informality. “If you want my honest opinion, Allfather, I hope there is a colony. In a single day we've suffered an attack on our own home and lost a prince—the people could use a good revenge war to settle their nerves.”

Preside over the War Council? Fizzing sunlight fills up my chest. Laughter flutters, but I squelch it. I keep my face implacable.

Sure. Why not?

“I appreciate your coming to find me,” I say, moving away from the false Casket to face Svaldir with a haughty nod. “Let us see what the Red Tower is deciding in their king's stead.”

He follows me from the weapons vault. His attendant, Othgam, is waiting for us in the hall. Othgam's eyes are glassy, although whether this is for having been unsuccessful in finding dear departed Thor or because he is still unused to being this close to royalty—who can say.

The vault guards flank us to the closest checkpoint, and the next pair to the middle checkpoint. Councilor Svaldir and Othgam Svaldismage are searched at each juncture, just in case the High Council has turned to black market thievery. My person is never searched. My invisible bag passes through all levels of security unnoticed, hanging from my left shoulder like a messenger's satchel, although I have to cast a silencing spell on both the contents and my armored side to keep the two from clacking together.

 

 


	3. King

The Red Tower—the War Council's Tower—is located at the southwest end of Bor's Courtyard. Possibly this coveted spot is more evidence that Bor belonged to the War Council in his early centuries rather than the High Council—but that far back, who remembers? Regardless, the result is view over Asgard that encompasses most of the Eternal City's prime real estate. The endlessly dull blue sky and near-at-hand cliffs are kept at bay with sparkling towers, flowing spires, myriad labyrinthine walkways, hair-thin bridges, arches, weightless domes, and picaresque gold-plate statues that offer a hundred thousand things to look at should running an empire's martial arm become too droll.

Tyr Hymirson, the Chief War Councilor, is Odin's military adviser and also head of the Court of Justice. He is missing his right hand and, unfortunately, this absence is the most interesting thing about his otherwise stamped-for-approval personality.

He and Odin go way back. Odin's policies are Tyr's policies. I expect they thought they'd be wiping each others' backside even unto their death beds. At this point they are practically the same person: grizzled, gray-bearded old warriors with a shared vision for the cosmos that includes mightily swinging mighty weapons and spouting honor from their arses. People like me don't figure into this vision. Had I been a low-born criminal I would have been tried and probably beheaded under Tyr's command. As it is, Tyr stands up to clap a proud fist to his heart in salute when I sweep into his amphitheater.

All right, when I who am Odin-King sweep into his amphitheater.

“The War Council is honored by Odin Allfather,” announces the Red Scribe without missing a beat, from her post by the marble-benched inner circle. “Son of Bor; grandson of Buri; bearer of the True Spear, Gungnir; ruler of Asgard the Eternal, high king of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil.”

Yes, yes, yes. Father of the Year and Gloating Schemer. I take my seat in the over-engraved opulence that is the Red Throne, on Tyr's right, while the rest of the War Council salutes. My invisible bag goes under the armrest farthest from him while I pretend to take my time getting comfortable. An old man's bones, after all.

“We are pleased to have you with us, Allfather,” Tyr tells me, without a glance in my direction. _You micromanaging bastard._ “I had thought his majesty would take the day for mourning and reflection. You were not seen at breakfast, nor in the Royal Tower for our meeting with the Vanir.”

Yes, and I'm famished.

“My mourning is done,” I say aloud in Odin's most intractable I'm-too-important-for-questions voice. I've heard Tyr wield one just like it. Maybe they practiced being obstinate fools together. “Please, continue. Councilor Svaldir told me that we had lost contact with a strategically important outpost. What is the situation on Vorsgard?”

Odin's symbiote gives up the over-embossed floor to his war leader with a grudging, “Lord Aumdyn?” His war leader steps back into the high circle's pool of sunlight from his deferential retreat at my magnificent presence. His black hair comes alive with bright flashes—he's wearing gold. Gold? Like a woman. His red cape is also clasped with the stuff, molded into an eagle holding a club. All right, _this_ makes him marginally more fascinating than anyone else in the stifling, self-important room.

“Allfather.” Lord Aumdyn thumps his ribs with a meaty fist. “Chieftain Tyr. We the council concur with his majesty's decree: if there has been sabotage, any persons responsible for interfering with the outpost on Vorsgard are henceforth traitors and subject to punishment as public spectacle. If, however, evidence comes forth that points toward the existence of a colony on that world, I move to recommend that execution is delayed in favor of thorough interrogation.”

“Agreed,” I say. Obviously. Why, has Odin forgone questioning in favor of punishment this past century? This is going to be fun, reigning high-chieftain over his mockery of a court—

A dizzy rush sweeps up my spine, making the blood pound in my temples. Not _century_. Four years. Only four years have passed on Asgard since my fall.

The Red Tower tries to pitch me back into eternal darkness. I clench the throne's decorated armrests. The knotted reliefs swim under me.

I am older now than Thor is. Not by much, but my older brother is not older anymore. And nor is he my brother. Nor is the king my father.

All the cosmos has shifted. I am a ghost.

I am . . . nothing.

Aumdyn inclines his sparkly head in somber thanks. Through the numb ache under my skin, the war leader's voice echoes dully—no more than another ghost in a vast unending wasteland. I am not reining over his left-behind court—I am a smug intruder in a realm I no longer have any claim to.

Aumdyn says, “I cannot overemphasize the gravity we may face should the outpost be compromised, sir. Technology likely still exists on that world and in fair enough repair that enemies of Asgard could use the planet as an offensive stronghold from which to attack the city.”

How much has changed in four years? It's hard to remember what things were like before.

“Old mechanical-chemical bifrosts—” the war leader is saying— “laughable though they may seem could still transport insurgents to us. With over a hundred thousand square miles of accessible surface topography, trying to pinpoint a location for retaliatory attack would be near-impossible. A network of tunnels through the ruins could provide perfect cover for these anarchists.”

I have slumped into a comfortable poise in which to hear this doomsday laundrylist, and remember too late that I need to sit like Odin Allfather. I unlace my fingers. I drop my hands to my knees. I plant my feet on the marble floor and try to keep my toes, shins, and thighs at ninety-degree angles to each other. I try to do all this without looking like I'm trying to do all this . . . or itchy.

“Lord Aumdyn,” I say when this awkward re-shuffling is done. “Your concern is unbefitting a warrior of your rank.” This is what Odin would say. “My grandfather Buri faced an uprising from Vorsgard when he declared himself king, and I do not intend to suffer the same insult. Any survivors from that first colony—” here I hesitate, although I know what Odin should say. He'd say the same thing I made him say last night to Svaldir: _There will be no second colony on Vorsgard_. However . . .

However.

That's a bad damned order.

Anyway, what's the point of being king if you can't give your own orders? I'll be gone as soon as this meeting is adjured. I want to give one command while I'm sitting the throne. A real command. Let the War Council choke on it.

“—Any survivors from the first colony,” I finish, slowly, “or any recent defectors who have formed a new colony . . . will be treated with as an independent kingdom.”

Silence from the war council.

No, they never did like my ideas.

I continue, fighting a smile: “Negotiations will commence immediately. I will personally send an ambassador to the surface of Vorsgard to meet with an ambassador from the colony—should one exist—and our ambassador will proudly welcome the new kingdom to our side in the face of our recent ' _grievous suffering'_ at the hands of the Dark Elves. Meanwhile, my ambassador will carry a spell which will be placed on the colonists' ambassador so we can track him back to his point of origin. This will show us where the colony is so that if they turn out to be hostile we can easily destroy them.

“Or,” I add, “if it so happens that all they wish for is _acceptance_ as loving sons and daughters of Asgard—even better! Now, rather than a second war with a civilization that probably just wants to be left alone, we have a built-in planet-wide outpost made up of a people who know the world's intimate secrets. This so-called independent kingdom will act as our eyes and ears if hostile forces ever _do_ invade Vorsgard, and in exchange for their unwitting fealty they will earn a place as part of our trade empire. Trade, you know, cements bonds more deeply than fear.”

I conclude: “Vorsgard will began exporting raw materials scavenged from their lost world to production facilities in Niflheim and Alfheim within the year, and in return be granted access to modern goods and military aid. A few millennia from now their efforts may well have rendered Vorsgard habitable again! We can then utilize the planet for our own needs—wouldn't that be something? Instead of burning it to a crisp—again—the planet could find new life as an asset for all of us. Population restrictions could be lifted on Asgard. Imagine having the right to bear three, or even _four_ , children.

“ _Or_ ,” I say, dropping my genteel tone for open sarcasm, “I can give the order to open the bifrost on Vorsgard as my late son did to Jotunheim, and rid us of this problem once and for all. One hour's effort could save us a prolonged military campaign. Something tells me, however, that incinerating our own homeworld will be an unpopular move among my subjects. Just a hunch.

“In conclusion, Chieftain Tyr,” I say with an offhand smirk that probably raises his hackles as much as it raised Odin's, “while not one single thing I just proposed is _honorable_ , you must admit it has a certain . . . elegance?”

Ha. Perfect.

No, not really.

I lied.

That isn't what happened.

That's what I _would_ say if I wanted a fast trip off the rimfall for real, this time without being dead first.

I am a prisoner. My survival depends upon my ability to play this role to perfection. As soon as I give an order that is not an Odin-order I will be outed, tortured, and killed.

That's a bit much for a good-bye present.

I stare at the ceiling so I don't have to face the room.

Here is Odin-King's command: “Any survivors from the first colony . . . will be generously offered the chance to swear eternal fealty to me. Should they refuse, they will be eliminated. There will be no traitors to my crown building their own empire on our homeworld.”

 _This_ speech gets a cheer. Tyr mashes his hands together.

I really, really, really, _really_ hate Asgard.

Afterwards, Odin's sycophantic rabble falls into discussion about the completely insane possibility that our outpost has been attacked—not by traitors—but Frost Giants. _Frost Giants?_ How Jotunheim was supposed to have found Vorsgard is apparently besides the point, as is how Jotunheim was supposed to have landed there.

Listening to them bicker, shout, threaten, swear oath upon oath for vengeance, I at least wait for someone to say, 'Thank the Nine that our beloved Prince Loki slew the evil Laufey-King', but this posthumous consolation never comes. No one—not _one_ among them—mentions my most noble accomplishment. Not even _Tyr_ , who echoes the sentiment that Asgard has let Jotunheim fester under our noses for far to long and now that Laufey _is_ dead—somehow—after attempting to murder Odin Allfather, this is the time to settle affairs. No one says anything about my thwarted attempt on the Jotun homeworld.

A cold finger of doubt worms into my head and then, an hour after the discussion slumps off to Dark Elves, full disbelief. Hot, constrictive, boiling fumes hit a flashpoint in my stomach. I sit motionless in Odin-King's glorious chair, burning alive while they busy themselves with the idea that—if not Jotunheim— _Svartalfheim_ could have manifested a two-pronged attack.

When the Warrior's Council adjourns, I postpone making my escape. Rather than oblige Odin Allfather by vanishing into nothing, I break into his private study to usurp his Nine-damned _name_. A king has afternoon duties to attend. There is a quartermaster's report to sign, after all, and repairs to the city that need evaluating, delegating, and _my_ royal seal—oh, and numbers have been dredged up for our losses both Aesir and financial that must meet my utmost concern. A king is a busy person!

_How does this figure into your plans, All-Father?_

_He wanted them to forget me_. That knowledge burrows into my stomach like a family of rats. He wanted me locked away and forgotten.

Tonight, I am Asgard.

I send my staff to fetch a late lunch so that I may eat on the balcony outside Odin's suite while I sift through his documents. Damage to the armory will sap funds—oh, look, the Einherjar want a pay increase. Granted. He can afford it.

The commoner school took a blast that reduced its left quadrant to ashes? That one's a priority; we need to rebuild morale!

Vanaheim's produce shipment took a hit also, so we have to order a new . . . everything. Damn. That will further deplete our funds. We can recover, but with the costs adding up from reparations we will need to raise port tax. Possibly recruiting the now-jobless or now-homeless quarter following the attack for a mass employment in manual rebuilding will circulate our economy enough to help offset that tax.

Weapons restock? _Yes_.

A proposal to improve shield deployment time? Hindsight is expensive, isn't it.

Ooh, looky. Six separate councilors request investigators be sent to Jotunheim. _Nope_.

Much of our livestock survived a second blast, thank goodness, but goats are now running free through the river district. Huh. Oh, that's funny. I wish I saw a few during my funeral.

Lord Gafal wants to give Niflheim the right to plunder Svartalfheim for any marketable resources? Nuh-uh. Also, Svaldir should keep an eye on him. With a request like that, Gafal might be dancing to some else's coin.

Oh, this one's _good_ : There is widespread popular appeal for Asgard to grant Thor his own statue, and/ or a holiday in his honor, and/ or a public commendation. Yes, yes, and yes—but the last one might be kind of hard now that he has _abandoned all of you_ , you _dull-eyed witless swine_.

I think I should put the statue in the courtyard in front of his suite's window, facing away from the palace, so that every time he looks outside he's looking up his own behind.

Frigga finds me at the balcony table with my feet on the chair across from me and supply lists spread out in between what has become a kind of luncheon-dinner civil war. I remember to sit like Odin only after I hear her say, in a very quiet voice, “Seeing you out here, working through dinner . . .” _Reminds me of Loki_.

A cold churning pulses down my spine. I kick my invisible bag under my chair, where she can't step on it. “I did not hear you come in,” I say, rearranging myself. Odin is itchy today.

Frigga wraps her arms around my shoulders. Some of the poison in my chest siphons away into a dim ache. I can't help but remember sitting on this balcony with her a long, long time ago. She used to read to me out here, before everything got bad.

The man who pretended to be my father worked in his study, and Thor was off running around the tower with his friends—but Mother and I had the afternoons to ourselves. Those were . . . good days. Very good days. Once my studies were finished we read An Histories and the great philosophers, the Book of War and Friafeist's Accounts of Past Kings. We took turns reading aloud the best parts, or she'd help me with the written languages I didn't know yet. I always had a special fondness for Myths and Legends of the Nine Realms, although that wasn't— _Stick me with a flaming sword_ , I think I understand now why she read to me so much about Jotunheim.

Huh.

Hindsight is expensive, isn't it?

Frigga shifts behind me, drawing me back from distant musing.

She says, “Did you know that Thor meant to abdicate?”

I snap my teeth together to keep from saying something foul. _Thor_. Of course _Thor_. Everybody loves Thor. Loki is dead and Thor bounced away to be with his mortal love, so of course it's Thor that Mother is thinking about, worrying after, _missing_. Did I know he meant to overshadow my funeral? Well, considering that the last time I saw him—before he started trying to kill me—was the night he threw a tantrum because he wasn't king yet, so. . . no. No, I did not.

I can't say any of that. Not if I want to leave here tonight with my head attached.

A barb pricks my heart and swells into a lead weight. I put down my lists and press my fingertips to my forehead. No, I _scrub_ my _fist_ against my eyes, because that is what Odin does when he is tired. I make Odin say: “I suspected he might. Thor has always done things his own way.”

“A trait shared by . . .” Frigga's pause is not deliberate. I can hear her regal mask cracking. “. . . the rest of the family.”

 _You_ , Mother. There is only you, now. Come tomorrow, you will be the last of us.

In a volcanic flash my anger melts away altogether; I get up from my chair so that she may have the dignity of conversing with me directly.

Her eyes are bright as glass.

I should have left. I shouldn't have stayed this late.

Why did I stay this late?

I shouldn't have gone to the Red Tower. I should have ordered Svaldir out and made my escape. Seeing her like this, as a woman instead of my unflappable mother or Asgard's iron queen, fills me with monumental unease.

At the same time: the thought that I might _not_ have come back here; that I might have plundered her husband's vault and simply left, sinks a hook into my throat that I can't dislodge.

I don't know what to tell her. Too much has passed between the present and that time when we shared books on her balcony. Those people are long gone.

“Thor will be well,” I say at last. “He may return in a year or two. I don't think he has the patience to live a mortal's life.”

Her smile is too soft to be sincere. “I remember when Loki fell in love with a mortal. Do you think that's the reason he agreed to go with Thor—?”

I grab her arm to make her stop.

“Thank you for not punishing Thor for Janefoster,” she says, instead. No smile.

Oh. So this was about me, after all. Now that I know what she wanted to say, I think I would rather talk about Thor. “Let us not speak of it.”

“I wish—” she closes her mouth. Even _she_ doesn't get to use that word around Odin. Her handsome brows knit together. She turns her face to the city's expanse. She purses her lips. “Thor will come to his senses. You are right. You are always right. Thor doesn't have the patience for _milking cows_ or—” she falters again, tries to smile. She changes her mind, apparently, and the topic, by laying a hand on my cheek. Her touch is cool and soft. Her hand smells like pollen. “You cannot rule forever, my love, however much you might want to try.”

“ _I know_.” All irony aside.

Frigga smells exactly like a mother should: spiced perfume, clean silks, pollen and dirt from her garden. She has been planting without me. Her face is lined, now, but I remember when she helped me build a trellis fort one balmy summer. She showed me how to encourage a big leafed vine to grow over the top, giving me my own private sanctuary in the green. I used to bring my toys out there and play.

Thor didn't have patience for gardening. Growing things meant taking joy in careful weeding, planting, planning ahead, following procedure. Success meant you got green instead of brown—not nearly exciting enough for his tastes.

This is how I knew he would be a terrible king.

I take Frigga's hands. I still don't have any idea what to say. This is the last time I will speak to her. I don't know if I _should_ say anything, at all. Everything I touch turns to poison; I would rather slip away than destroy this last moment as I have destroyed everything else.

 _Thank you_ , I want to say.

 _Good-bye_ , I want to say.

Frigga kisses my cheek. I lean into her—one last embrace and I am gone. She puts her hand between my thighs.

Slimy revulsion jolts me backwards. Magic flashes. I flinch as the aurora sears my vision in flickering lights; the Odin-mask evaporates and I scrabble to sink fingernails into my shattered concentration—too late.

I am . . . _me_ again.

Shock turns Frigga still as glass. Her mask remains intact. She won't scream. Her eyes haven't gone wide. She won't recoil. Her mouth creases to a tiny slash, but this is the only chink in a lethal, hollow silence that wells up between us. The silence—the stillness—squeezes my throat so tight I can't breathe. I am left standing exposed, unwelcome, un-dead, in company to the queen whose family I have destroyed. The pressure in my head pushes free. I conjure a grin to hide it, but the mask is brittle and full of holes. Shame seeps down my face.

Her hand lashes out and I cringe to my bones, anticipating the slap that will break sharp across my jaw.

I want her to hit me. She is Queen of Asgard; she won't recoil, she won't fear. She will yell for the guards, but I need her to hit me because if she summons the guards we are nothing, we are strangers, and if she hits me that's something. We are still something. There's something left.

She cups the side of my head, above my left ear. Her fingers curl through my shredded locks, with a hand that still smells like dirt.

“What have you done to your hair?” the Queen demands, as if I've just run in from playing in my trellis fort with summer twigs hitching a ride in my tangles. She cups my shorn scalp in her calloused palms, drags me down so she can press her lips to my forehead. Her chin is warm against the bridge of my nose. She hugs my head without speaking.

 


	4. A Prince of Lies

“Odin gave me a second chance,” I tell her when the worst is over. I've calmed down, and she's calmed down. She no longer looks like she's about to break my jaw—or hug me—and I've stopped my womanish tears. We're sitting in her herbalist's room with the remains of sweetmilk and floral cakes between us like children at a Midsummer party. Dried flowers and medicinal greens color the air in layered scents, some crisp as a fire pit and others a mystifying half-dream that would lead a person half-mad trying to find the source. We could be . . . years ago. Centuries ago. I've just come home from Alfheim. Or I've just come by in between judiciary terms at the High Council.

Frigga pours mead in the silver mug she's found for my use; mead being a drink for truce. Sharing this drink is sharing trust and honor; this drink is owned by warriors and owed the night before great battles. It's a grievous offense to betray someone pouring one mead—provided one actually _drinks_ the mead. The cakes are more my style. They taste like flowers—not _real_ flowers, which as any five year old can tell you taste absolutely disgusting—but the way flowers would taste if flowers tasted anything like they smell. They are delicious _lies_.

“I lured him to Svartalfheim disguised as a palace guard,” I say around a blue pastry that complements the mead not in the slightest. “I wanted to have a good long chat with our king where he couldn't have me thrown back behind bars. If the man who used to pretend to be my father did not bother to hear what I had to say before sentencing me to life in prison, he was certainly going to listen to me then.”

“Odin was angry with your actions,” Frigga says, because of course this reconciles everything. “As was I.” She hesitates around her next bite of pastry. Her lower lip twitches, but I can't tell if she's masking a frown at me or her absentee husband. Frigga sets aside her fork with her own cake untouched.

I make an elaborate point to drink every last drop of her mead. I can't let her think I've got anything to hide now. When I am finished, I add the empty mug to our make-believe symbolism scattered on the table between us. “Do you have anything less . . . noxious? A good Vanir bitter per chance, or even a—”

“Loki.” Her fingers knot together in her lap where she must think I can't see them. “Where is your father?”

I have to quirk an eyebrow at that. “I'm going to assume you mean your husband. I think we both well know what happened to the creature who gave me life.” Even here in the herbalist room there are gaudy ornamental touches from the rest of Odin's personal territory: a shining managull crest and doorknob that don't match Frigga's naturalistic sensibilities. The flawless glowing metal seems to be watching us, ordering me to leave. Frigga's dried vegetation and wooden apothecary table are intruders much the same way that I am: a small green heart out-armed so much polished sterility.

Frigga's hands are corpse white. “ _Where_ is your father?”

Unhappiness tries to slice up into my ribs. Whatever lie I've let settle around me, that she and I could be whiling lunch and I'm still her son and she's still my mother, is gone. I swallow a sour lurch that wants to be blood. I can still taste the mead. My throat is plastered in rancid beehive.

She watches me with dark, wet eyes.

My mouth peels into an overlarge smile. Mistrust is not a sight I'm used to enduring from Frigga. “Odin?” I say. “Or Laufey?”

“Don't.” Her voice is hollow.

“Don't demand to know why I was captured as a prize and lied to my en—?”

“Don't . . . pretend you don't know what I'm asking.” The Queen doesn't rise to my bait for an argument. The distance in her eyes is a stinging rebuke.

I blow out a weary breath. The apothecary chairs are no good for comfort, so I kick one leg up to rest across the other and face her above the empty mug. “He listened to my story. He went to verify its truth. When he found out that I am not a complete honorless liar, he decided that I should be allowed to go into hiding. I am on my way to anonymity now and would be gone if you hadn't startled me. Not that I _minded_ being startled, understand, but you're not exactly at the top of my list. I was to collect anything I meant to take from my rooms and leave—I wanted to say goodbye to you first.” What a mistake that's turning out to be. I would rather hold Frigga's likeness as the grief-stricken mother from last night than remember the dirty reproach she's using to dissolve my vitals.

Her emotionless facade doesn't so much as flicker. “What story?”

“ _My_ story. Strange that anyone's bothered to ask after all this time. I've been growing accustomed to being written off as a blight to be silenced. My _story_ , _Mother_. Starting with the moment I fell off the Rainbow Bridge and ending when dear sweet Hlothorri marched me back home as a criminal in chains. As I have lamented, If our beloved king had thought me worth time enough to even _speak_ with after condemning me to suffer alone and die, he'd have known two years ago that I am a harbinger of terrible truth: I'm not really the monster you need to be worrying about.”

“ _Where_ is Odin?” Frigga repeats.

Hatred swells black and cold in my chest. “Why? Do you think I've killed him? Am I a murderer now, in your eyes?”

She places her hands on the table, but whether to form a barrier between us or hope that I will reach out to her like a child I do not care to find out. Now as before, I've told her something important and all she worries after is whether her precious—

“Loki.”

My name is not a rune of binding.

“I cannot protect you,” Frigga says. Her voice is strange, old and very weak. “Whatever you have done is of your own making, and although I love you this is—”

What did I expect? _My dearling, I am so glad you are alive. Let us forget this last cen—four years—and go back to the way things were. Come here. You don't have to go into hiding_. _Please stay on Asgard_. I am _still_ a fool.

“I don't require your protection,” I snap. “Or your help.”

Frigga inhales sharply through her nose. She is going to ask her question again.

“Odin is watching me as we speak,” I say, so I won't have to endure her wishing me away. Again. “The information I gave to him is the only reason I am alive. Even separated by the branches of Yggdrasil he won't let me be. The man who made me call him father is waiting for one wrong move— _any_ move—to use as his final excuse. He wants to have me executed. Don't be shocked, Mother, you know how he is.”

“I find it hard to believe—” She _is_ shocked, but not for that reason. Frigga's lips are white and barely move— “that he wanted you to _impersonate_ him.”

I take my time finishing my floral cake. This one has a bite to it like blood peppers, which is much preferable to sugary sweetness. Sweetness is best when accompanied by a pinch of salt, or liberal application of heat. Sweetness drizzled over sweetness is repellant—too much of a good thing is a badly told lie botched by someone trying too hard to make you their friend. The cakes add a floral garden to the other falsities in this herbalist's room: the garden isn't real, and the sensible wooden table isn't sensible for a High King's wife, and the hand-gathered herbs drying from the rafters weren't picked by Asgard's queen nor tied by Asgard's queen, nor hung from real rafters. The rafters are decoration. Furniture.

“And _I_ find it hard to believe,” I say, “that my execution means nothing at all to you.”

Frigga's chin wrinkles. She _won't_ cry. I love her that she doesn't won't cry. Frigga sees this detour for what it is, and watches me like a headsman.

“Well, no,” I finally admit. “But we can't always get what we want, now, can we? I needed to get into my suite and my choices for going inconspicuous were you, Thor, or Odin-King. You and your son are currently on Asgard, while Odin-King is currently playing hide-and-seek with the Chitauri. Did you like my eulogy?”

“Tell me what he is doing.” Frigga doesn't rise to this detour, either. “You said he is watching you. From where?”

“Ask him yourself when he returns.”

“I am asking you.” Her lips tighten. “Please tell me where my husband is.”

I don't shrug. I don't smile. This is too serious for games. “In the Void. Looking to convince himself I'm _still_ an honorless liar. He wants to see that this mysterious Other I've told him about isn't a figment of my ill imagination. Your healer told me that I was mad, and I suspect your husband agrees. The last I saw of him, he told me he would plant me on a spike if I misused his trust.”

I sit upright and shuffle forward in my chair. “Say! I have a question for _you_. Earlier today in the War Council, while I was ordering a territorial massacre rather than, I don't know, _establishing a second world_ , I was perplexed to realize that there is a bizarre gulf in the Red Council's knowledge. Why isn't it know that it was _I_ who slew Laufey-King? I suppose by now I should stop being hurt when Asgard brushes my triumphs under the rug and brandishes my defeats for all to see, but so long as this is an unexpected chance for honest dialogue I might as well ask.”

Frigga's brow furrows. “We did not think you would be proud to have that known.”

“Why shouldn't I be proud? Laufey was a dangerous enemy of Asgard who would have murdered both you and Asgard's king. I am a hero.”

I can see the answer written on her face as thinly-veiled pity. Heat snaps to life in my heart; I can taste cinders; sparks explode behind my eyes. She reaches for me in an infantile attempt to comfort. I jerk backwards so hard the chair scrapes. “I was raised as Odin's son. I was Prince of Asgard. I dealt the finishing blow to Jotunheim to end the war my foolish not-brother started, to save Aesir lives before the first battle-cry sounded. Does that not prove my loyalty beyond call of doubt? No, Your Majesty. Tell it true: Odin didn't want my heroism known for fear that the War Council might back me instead of Thor as heir to the throne. _I slew Laufey-King_.”

She shakes her head. “We thought you dead. Keeping that secret wasn't an attempt to discredit you—What you did with the bifrost was not honorable. Yes Thor foolishly provoked them to war, but once war is declared a realm has the right to reclaim its honor in battle.”

“We are not talking about the bifrost. We're talking about _Laufey_.” Pressure wells behind my eyes. I fight against the bitter rush. “Tell it true, for once in my life: I am _not_ your son and never have been.”

Frigga reaches for me. I won't touch her. This lie is worse than any she's told me outright.

“Anyway, about my dishonor,” I say, to pull us back from that abyss. “What if Jotunheim had won the battle? What would we have done then?”

“War,” she says.

War. I am alone at the bottom of a black well. Somewhere written on the runes of my soul is the damnable idea that honor is less important than long-term results. So what if Jotunheim is denied the chance to slaughter us? I am doomed by my own creation. “So, you did not wish to dishonor me? What was my last act to be in our peoples' eyes, then? To send the Destroyer after my own brother for reasons never explained? To dishonor Asgard by using the bifrost as a weapon? How was I to be remembered? Don't lie to me!”

Frigga's shoulders are rigid. Her mask tightens to an impenetrable armor. “Your father thought it best if Asgard hear that the Jotnar renegades who invaded his trophy room made a second attempt to breach our city. You as King went to meet them in battle. Thor earned his redemption on Midgard and returned in time to assist you. There was a great fight on the Rainbow Bridge, worthy of songs. The Jotnar sought to control the bifrost in order to bring more of their warriors to Asgard. The fate of our golden empire came down to you, Thor, and Heimdall against thirty of Laufey's bravest. Blood soaked the sky. The ground shook. Thanks to the sons of Odin the invaders were turned back. You slew a dozen of Laufey's fiercest before taking a spear through the heart. You fell from the Bridge when the bifrost was destroyed.”

I fight to stay seated in my chair. “How fitting that Loki the Liar was to be remembered with a lie.”

“It was an honorable death.”

“I'm surprised Thor went along with you. I would have liked to see the look on his face when Odin taught him that absurd recitation.”

The skin around her eyes tightens almost imperceptibly, as if she wants to look down at her knotted hands and fears that I am going to read her in pain. “Thor said,” she forces out, at last, “that you fell off the Bridge on purpose.”

Oh? Yes, this is the story she told me while I wasted two years of my life in a cell. I don't remember doing this. From anyone else's lips I wouldn't believe it, but honest golden precious Thor couldn't make up a cover story this shameful. If he _had_ killed me he would have blamed my death on me . . . he would have explained, with his handsome honest face scrunched in passion, that I deserved to die. He _had_ to kill me, you understand. And everyone would have believed. It was only a matter of time anyway, they would have whispered to each other. We knew this is how it must end, someday.

I remember being forced to the edge by Odin-King, who had decided that knowledge of my birthplace made me too dangerous, and Thor, who wanted revenge for my trying to prevent his illegal return from exile. I remember Odin's spear striking blood from my head, tearing sharp across my back, knocking me to my knees. I remember Thor picking me up and pitching me bodily from the Bridge like waste. I don't remember the fall into nothing.

I remember Frigga telling me, with her illusion's weightless hands pressing through my boney fists, that none of that had ever happened.

It is a terrible thing, not being able to trust your own mind. Trying to sort out what's real and what's not is like trying to keep my footing on shifting sand. Every time one thinks one has a good foothold the the tide comes in and the pattern changes. And one is lost.

Frigga says, “You never told me how you came to make alliance with the Chitauri.”

“Nor will I,” I say.

Her eyes are very bright. I like the bright, honed look better than the shadowed, dead look. “You did not tell me, either, how you thought to claim Midgard for yourself without Asgard's intervention. That part I understand less than all the rest, and the rest is . . .” She closes her eyes. “Loki, you have always been bound by an understanding of political current—a certain logic, if not honor.” This is as grudging a compliment as can be given, in both the circumstances and attached to the phrase _if not honor_. “Your actions against Midgard make no sense to me at all. Knowing you, I know you have some larger scheme and if I could only understand the context I could understand _why_. I want to know _why_. What did you hope to achieve? If Thor did not stop you, your father would have been forced to deal with you himself as he did with . . . past attempts to subjugate the folk of Midgard.” _Laufey_. She doesn't say it out loud. _As he dealt with Laufey_.

_You are Laufey's heir, following in his father's footprints_.

No, these aren't Frigga's words. These aren't real expect in my own head. I want to pull them from my skull, sink my fingers into my brain, scratch this from existence.

“Must we have this argument again?” I complain. “Now you know that I'm not a murderer. Did you truly think I had killed your husband? Don't worry, I will be gone from Asgard soon and Odin Allfather returned. You will be happy then. And this started out such a nice visit.”

The ice dissolves from her mask. Frigga holds out her hands. I hesitate—but this time I take them. “All right,” she says, and she could be my mother again.

“All right?” I am dangling from a thread.

“All right.”

The silence in Odin's suite is no longer so oppressive. We are sitting on the edge of memories—real memories—and the start of forever. Peace returns in waves, tip-toeing through the ashes of all that remains of our lives. There is a bubble between now and the rest of the cosmos, which nothing and no one can break.

Frigga says, “Would you like for me to read to you?”

Smiling hurts, but I have to smile. “No. I don't want to waste it getting lost in some other world. Can we just sit here for a bit more?”

* * *

 

Lemony warm sunlight draws me from broken sleep. Frigga's divan is more comfortable than it was last night, seeming now like downy fluff wrapped in the tail end of oblivion rather than a cage, or a cell, or an inexplicable tank with broken wires growing into my arm.

If I don't wake up . . .

If it's possible that I won't have to wake up . . .

The mud of pre-consciousness slides back over my head. _Never mind_ , it whispers in a tongue too primordial for words. _Never mind_. There is yellow-white light kissing across my face; morning happens somewhere through the gauzy, luminescent drapes. Morning has nothing to do with me. Never mind. Go to sleep.

_I am vanished_.

Flames roll across a pyre boat. Lightweight, shining gold in my hand. Flowers, smells of flowers everywhere, cakes and fear. Remorse. Regret. Festering sickly gnawing from head to foot.

I break the surface in a rush with yesterday unspooling behind my eyes. Mid-afternoon bakes sweat across me in a sticky film more grease than liquid. Salt and dirt compounds into a smothering cocoon under the heavy blankets twisted around my neck, arms, and legs. My heart screeches into terrified spinning; I claw for the light. My left hand breeches the enshrouding blankets and sacred cool air pours down my skin. Every hair on my arm stands straight, reinvigorating. I tear open the gap, kicking forward to crawl out into open day. Sunlight and fresh air cleanse me in melted ice.

I dump the blankets on the marble floor and smudge my hands across my clammy face. My heart is still scrabbling like a small panicked furry thing, digging for shelter in the dark. There is a part of me that is un-Aesir, devolved, crushed into a hole. My forehead feels like snow.

Did I almost die? Or do I only think I did?

I want . . .

_Dark space and distant stars and yellow eyes. Faces smeared like reflections in oil, rippling bone, armor from teeth sewing up every surface. Skeletal faces on waxen, wiry bodies_.

I want nothing that's in my head.

I plant my feet on the clean cold floor so the icy shock will clear my mind. Sliding upright is a dangerous effort, so I creep for the royal washroom with my toes eating up as much chill as I can get. Despite the late hour Frigga's marble should be heated, but this lack is a small miracle because I—I

Damn it.

Because _I_ prefer the _cold_.

I stick my head under Odin-King's washroom spigot with the flow dialed as far down the temperature scale as I can get. Tepid spray slicks down my face and neck in ropes of soothing, tickling, diamond-chip water. The water is endless. The water is numb. The water is untouchable.

_I'm drowning_.

I'm not drowning.

_I'm breathing, even with water closed above my head. The air is stale, burning dry. My nose and throat have blistered from_

I grope along the too-warm wall for a towel. Odin-King's towels are too soft and with too high of a thread count—more like tiny waterproof decorations than towels, with as much absorbent power as oil—and make a few useless swipes with the plush decor. When I stand up there is a hateful, green-eyed monster glowering at me from the mirror.

He looks . . . less like paste than yesterday. His hair is odd. I know I didn't bother with style in lopping off my hair, but _his_ hair . . . _his_ hair makes him look like an escapee from one of Midgard's mental hospitals. Does Midgard still have mental hospitals? Things change so rapidly there. He looks like a patient at a mental hospital.

He is not my friend. He is no one's friend. I would rather we went our separate ways, as Thor did and Odin did and Frigga will, but he is the only ally I have.

I bathe and then reassess my pilfered clothes, which are a utilitarian triple-layered biosuit protected with mesh and armor: black duricloth slashed with silver at the shoulders, elbows, and under my jacket. I used them for military campaigns that didn't require finesse; they were never really _mine_ , as such, so much as a costume I wore when needed. I feel nothing for them, which is why they are coming with me. After ripping away the crescent at my collar which marks me as second prince, the armored biosuit could belong to anyone with wealth and a moderate amount of taste. And now, what to do about the madman in the mirror?

The thought of using Odin-King's grooming or cosmetic supplies leaves me feeling like a vagabond rooting through someone else's scraps. I must make myself presentable with glamors. Daily cosmetic glamors are the domain of whores and elves, but at least this magic will stick to my face, hair, and clothing until I remove it, unlike—

A hollow weight sinks to the base of my stomach and expands. The chilling marble tilts under my boots. I project my soul into the weapons vault in frantic, bloodless fury. If I've been caught—

Silence. Raw cursed light glimmers unaltered on blank, veined walls. The vault is empty. No alarms have sounded.

Good.

I recast the two illusions that cover up my shopping excursion. There is an unhappy tingling in my chest, and this is a problem almost as severe as if the vault guards had done a random inspection last night.

Am I bored, already? Would I like someone to run screaming to the palace gates that we have been robbed?

I don't like being a ghost.

My drying hair is covered with an illusion that I never did what I did to it yesterday. My face is charmed to hold as much color as I've ever had. There is a weird bullseye scar on my right arm that I do not remember acquiring but probably predates the Chitauri since the Chitauri do not leave scars; this can stay. I can make up a good warrior's tale to explain it. The black and silver biosuit has already been spelled free from dust, and looks as respectable as it can be made—which, pathetically, isn't much. At least the madman in the mirror is gone. I am a person wearing the person I used to be as a disguise . . . while disguised as a person I never was. Ha! How is that for a mental knot? And that mental knot recesses into an honest-to-godless-Nine rabbit hole, since, you know, between Odin-King, Loki-that-was, and Loki-that-is, in an odd twist of fate the person I used to be wanted nothing better from a miserable life than to please the person I never was—and now we the three of us are layers under the same make-believe Aesir skin. I am my _own_ worst enemy.

That's enough to give anyone an identity crisis.

How far down is the _blue_ under all that, I wonder. I can see no trace in the mirror. Does the _blue_ even count as my skin? Or is the _blue_ like muscle and bone at this point: an inert building block for what I _really_ am?

I think I'm either sinking deeper into madness, or getting religion.

When this aesthetic self-defense is complete I replace my Odin-mask and retreat to the receiving room to order afternoon breakfast for Frigga. The Queen retires late and rises late; something else we have in common. My thoughts wake up at night, when no one else is around to bother me. This makes—made—sitting through early meetings a royal headache, when I had to get up with the sun because this-or-that Vanir dignitary or Aesir governor thought early attendance meant a more productive court—or at least a shine on the armor for punctuality. Night-time is good for practicing magic. I suppose there'd be nothing like an attendant coming to bring his master court transcripts only to butt in at the wrong moment and find himself accidentally turned into a beetle. And then . . .

I am stalling.

Where is Frigga?

I've left my invisible bag on the balcony. I should probably bring it in, or hide it someplace more secure just in case a servant happens by to clean, but the thought of touching it makes me feel as if there is a serpent lodged in my chest. I am hexed to the floor, unable to get up and walk out the ugly pompous door into an ugly grandiose balcony. My feet are stuck to the ridiculous cold marble. My knees are too stiff to move. Whatever aura lives in this horrible old suite is closing in on me, pushing me away from the exit. I can't look at the balcony door without a squirmy, unclean sensation trying to crawl up my throat.

I can't shake the feeling that if I pick up the bag I will have lost something vital.

Odin's suite is watching me, even if its owner can't. Even if his wife won't.

* * *

Breakfast comes before Frigga wakes. I eat alone.

I am still stalling.

An attendant begs an audience to know if Odin-King will see Lady Drifa about . . . something Odin-King should already be familiar with. No, he won't be taking appointments today. Eilulsur son of Endrill the High Steward wants Odin-King to put his seal on the documents I pushed through yesterday evening—did Odin-King forget that he changed his seal last year? How could I forget my own seal? Run along, boy. Don't ask questions. There is a meeting with the royal bank that I can't avoid but do, and a request from the High Sorceresses to ignore. Where _is_ Frigga? Svaldir begs to see me in private—fine.

I can try feeling sorry for Vorsgard, for a change.

“Your majesty.” The councilor pledges his heart to me in salute like everybody else, and I wave him along. I don't want his heart, and I don't want him here. I don't want him gone, either. His new attendant, Othgam, stands at his master's back doing an impression of a constipated statue.

“You, mage,” I demand of the latter, for the thrill of watching him try to hide behind himself. I am Odin, Great and Terrible. Fear me. “What is your name?”

“Othgam,” the statue sputters. “Ebbafson. Svaldirsmage.”

“Well, Othgam Ebbafson-Svaldirsmage,” I drawl, “Can you please tell me what is the most important thing for a boy-sorceress to learn during his apprenticeship?”

The boy blanches. His watery eyes focus to a point outside the curtained windows and his arms manage to lock even tighter to his orange-and-gold-clad sides than physics ought allow. “To always be quick and ready to answer well, for whatever question he is required?” he invents.

Cheeky little bastard.

I like him.

The vice in my chest loosens half a turn. “We'll see you in a green cape yet,” I say, more amicably. Othgam tries to hide a gushing, relieved smile. “How old are you?”

He pledges his heart like his master. “I have one hundred and thirty-five years, sir.”

And here I thought Asgard would lose its remaining intelligence when I slip off to Helheim knows where.

“Well done,” I exclaim. He's almost nine hundred years from earning the right to apply for Councilorship, but apprenticing under the Chief Councilor for Interrealm Affairs is a good way to secure himself a position when the times comes. I _do_ like him. Being Prince of Asgard I was guaranteed a place in the High Council—or War Council, as Thor chose. Othgam will have to either prove himself worthy or wind up detesting himself working as a bondsmage under someone who _is_. That, or slink off with the women to learn Healing Arts. He's off to a good start.

I clasp my hands behind my back, gone from pointless tyrant to thoughtful co-conspirator in a heartbeat. “And how do you like the Black Tower? You would be . . . let me see . . . in your second tier as a mage?”

“Yes, sir. I do, sir.” The constipated statue melts into an orange-haired, somewhat hulking young man whose disposition and skin tone try to blend him into the shadows. “A lot. I mean, I like the Black Tower and I like apprenticing to the High Council. My mother is Ebbaf Imblonsdottir, sir. I've inherited her gifts. I have prowess in arms as well, of course—at the great ax especially.”

Of course. Mustn't forsake arms. The boy might read all the books he can get his hands on, but for all anyone cares the question is still whether or not he can kill a man with a bit of pointy metal. At the end of the day boy-sorceresses must make a difficult choice: continue enduring Asgard as a weak magic-wielding excuse for a man, or take up living as a woman. Othgam, I'm guessing, will try for the former.

Svaldir's mage says, “I find that the ax is better for close-quarters combat in a variety of scenarios that do not favor the sword or pole arm. According to Galar's _The Skill of Bloodshed, second Principle,_ the ax is—”

“And have you discovered the secret door out of the Black Tower?” I ask, because I don't care about his obligatory prowess with weapons. “There's a secret door in the second cellar that opens behind a mirror. A smart mage might charm the lock if he's very careful. Who knows where the tunnel leads?”

Othgam's delighted expression says, I am going to find out.

Svaldir interrupts his miscreant shadow with a hammer-hard, “The son of Ebbaf has been a great help to me, Odin Borson Allfather. I am pleased that you approve of his appointment as my new attendant.”

“Quite,” I relent. Oh well. The Black Tower is full of mysteries, and discovering them is half the fun of being a mage.

The grimace Svaldir turns on me now is prelude to a speech I've seen him give one thousand times to the High Council—seventeen thousand times to the War Council, if Thor's moaning complaints are to be trusted. The councilor has a way of tucking his lips against his teeth that make him look like a disappointed priest about to renounce God for the brandy, as my friend and one-time colleague Father Seg—

Yes, I've had many occupations on Midgard. Some of them more holy than others. Why are you surprised?

In the quiet of Odin's still Frigga-less room, the Grimace settles over us like an electrified fog. Usually this speech comes after some too-tight-in-the-trousers councilman in another realm has decided to blockade a trade route between two _other_ realms, and Asgard finds itself with an unacceptable halt in supplies delivered from processing plants in Blockaded Realm #1 or #2. The Grimace means Bearer of Bad News; a crippling thorn in the heel as inconvenience turns to potential war; political frustration because more important matters get shunted to the side when personnel are rerouted to deal with a pointless, honorless, stupid conflict that serves little but distract from managing the whole; in short: we Have a _Problem_.

For the sake of thoroughness, here is the way Thor tells it: Any time a confidant young hero (Thor) makes a name for himself in a good fight (nearly causes a war with someone we can't afford to buy off), Svaldir gets jealous because he is too fat and old to pick up a weapon (has a massive damn empire to run).

There. You can't say I'm not open to both sides.

The electrified fog thickens into heady anticipation.

I broach the Problem. “Tell me, councilor. What have our emissaries found on Vorsgard? Have they reestablished contact with our outpost?”

A muscle in Svaldir's jaw twitches. “That's the trouble, I fret. We have lost contact with them as well.”

Vorsgard. Ruined homeworld. Colony.

How interesting.

I grind my teeth against the smile that wants to spread across my face, and politely tuck my hands into my cape instead. Odin doesn't delight in chaos. Odin wants everything locked up in labeled boxes. Odin would never give the cauldron an extra stir. Odin would take this news as a call to war.

“Councilor?” I say in a voice that doesn't quite sound like Odin. “Please tell my wife that I have gone to examine this situation myself. The Red Council will expect a call to arms this afternoon, but I would investigate the planet on my own before going that far. There may be more to this situation than petty warmongering would have us believe. Am I too optimistic in hoping that somewhere out in the vast whirling cosmos there is someone else as sane as I? Give Frigga a full report in regards to everything we have discussed. Between now and the hour of my return I am leaving Asgard in the Queen's command.”

Having already pledged his heart, Svaldir hunts around his ribs for a second salute.

He and Othgam bow themselves out.

I wait a good five minutes before conjuring a gate between worlds. Strapped across my shoulder once more, my invisible bag flares brightly as teleportation creates a thaumatic charge around its wards. No need for them to see that my magic is green.

 

 

 


	5. The Problem of Vorsgard

The first time I walked between realms to Vorsgard I avoided the outpost as an unloved extension of Odin-King's empire. I had just been released from a hundred-years confinement in the Eternal City, and wasn't in the mood for more of the Allfather's minions. It seemed that after a rainbow light from the sky ripped apart my marriage of eight years I didn't want to see him or Thor or any of the others longer than mandatory—fancy that. When my punishment ended and the man I thought to be my father returned to me my right to use the bifrost, I refused him out of spite to spend the next fifty years learning how to travel from place to place on my own, in secret.

Vorsgard earned the self-indulgent honor as the place of my first successful teleportation. Something about the ash-stained sky, smoldering nihilistic carnage and helplessness baked into every scrap of murky ground really spoke to me back then. I haunted the bleak roads as a dead person, mourning my mortal family.

The last time—the only time—I visited Vorsgard, its surface glowed red beneath low-rolling, shapeless smoke. Nine hundred years ago, Vorsgard still burned from the fires Buri set.

The dead planet's misshapen landscape is a seething orange-brown mire. Blistered mud flats are sculpted into uneven peaks and dark abyssal valleys by a careless volcanic hand. Charred wreckage thrusts upward from its blasted cities at precarious angles, forming a jagged canopy of ancient towers, corroded walls, and formless metal sculptures.

This was how Buri ensured his god-hood. This was the last civil war we Aesir ever fought.

There is a weak place in the wards above a field outside the former Ocean Capitol. I teleport here and draw a shield over myself against the sweltering heat, before heading East under a giant bone-white sun. The city throws sharp shadows across my path. Skeletal remains dapple the muddy ground with cast pools of cooler air as if from the largest trees that ever lived. Small rocks and immortal habrium scrap litter what could have been a main street, carpeting the abandoned walkways like a mealy underbrush. Dead-eyed buildings full of windows watch me from the greasy layers above.

Asgard's outpost is just beyond the city's threshold, protected by defensive wards above and beyond the planet-wide network that prevents Heimdall from spying. I can see the blinking force field from here, growing larger as I prowl through a maze of corpse streets.

Nothing moves in the rubble.

Slipping into a deep oceanic shadow, I murmur a spell to slick my right index finger in casting ink and draw a rune for Sight on my temple. The dark places fill with color, making Vorsgard's ruins a splotchy tangle of white-lit glittering decay and yellow-brown secrets. Hidden in a recess the color of boiled fat, I switch my lies to replace Odin-King's mighty ceremonial presence with an unrecognizable face and featureless black robe. Another instant, and I am wearing make-believe silver gauntlets set with runic inscriptions that look terrifying but mean absolutely nothing at all. Let Asgard's loyal warriors mistake me for a scout from the Black Tower. Let the colonists take me for a bizarre and dangerous ally.

Oh yes—and one more thing. I unsling my invisible bag and bury it at the foot of a cracked, lichenous wall. A tracker spell and all those idiot wards I laid over my bedroom door will be useful, here. If any person but me comes within twenty feet of this place I will know it. If any person tries to steal what is in this place they will die. I cover the invisible bag with debris, vanish my tell-tale footprints, and step out to face Vorsgard's newest kingdom.

The outpost is silent as I approach. No guards from either side appear above the white stone wall. Dried mud crunches as I come to a stop. The ground just shy from the force field is burnt with old magic, rippled and pocked from long-standing wards. The ground holds other secrets, too: shallow impact craters warn that someone broke through the defenses, not long ago, and their solid-loop failsafe generator has been activated from the inside. Two days? Three days?

The gate is closed. No alarms echo at my proximity. No challenge is issued.

There is only silence. And stillness. And the rustle of wind through the hollow streets.

An electric current races up my spine, down to the ends of my fingertips. I swallow the grin pushing its way to freedom and give the barren wall a disparaging glare.

“I'm going to give you the benefit of my doubt and assume that you can see me,” I say. “If you _can't_ see me, you are an incomparable fool and I have no interest in speaking with you at all.”

No answer. Nothing. Whoever now occupies the outpost is playing safe. Very well.

I say, “I know that you are not the same people who were stationed here. Good. I am Vyir the Councilor, of the Long Wastes. Will you open your gates that we may talk?” Vyir the Councilor waits in parade rest for a response. A little military etiquette makes him into a benign figure clinging to his training, which in the face of cutthroat traitors also makes him worthy of disdain.

Sabotaging myself works well when I need to put someone at ease.

Unfortunately, my play opens to an audience of zilch.

“Ah—sorry,” humble Vyir sputters. “I don't know if you cannot hear me or if you are choosing not to respond. I do not mean to invade what is clearly _your_ outpost, but I must speak with someone in charge.” This armor-polishing gets me nowhere fast, either, so I give up the humble chit-chat to carve a few runes into the dirt outside the re-generated force field. Green sparks shower upward, mapping the charge circuit into a grid. I tear into the grid with Holding spells, siphoning magic from main channels to flood smaller capillaries. Charge lines buckle, compensate, mutate as they try to hold back an unprecedented surge. The old failsafe's heart opens before my eyes in a spectral mirage like green rivers in the dirt; the loop completes it circuit and the force field snaps.

There is no better joy than rending another sorcerer's spells into ash.

Orange auroras crash around my feet. I walk through a hole in the shield easy as walking through a door.

Breaking into the fortress itself is even simpler; another few spells and the Open rune unlocks a towering habrium gate that grinds aside to reveal an orange-lit passageway. I construct a personal shield just in case the colonists are the strike-first type, and step out to meet them as a genteel messenger from the stars. Once they hear what I have to say, they will forgive my transgressions.

The passageway is deserted.

I hesitate on the threshold, eyes narrowing.

The outpost is lit front to back in flawless even light, sterile and unblemished. No one comes to meet me. No footsteps echo in the passageway's clandestine depths.

Hairs raise on the back of my neck.

Something wrong here. Either the colonists have abandoned the outpost after all, or—

Boobytrapped?

A smirk snakes up my face and this time I allow it. _Oh, clever-clever. You mocking trolls_. _Perfect._ I take my time drawing detection spells on the floor and walls. Magic shimmers out in a cheerful wave, caressing the passageway's sloping gray stone, delving into every nook and cranny that were once—millennia ago—murder holes through which defenders could pour caustic potions or plasma gunfire. I have to keep an eye out for any cretinous heroic types who might like to take a cheap swing at a sorcerer, but the mud path behind me remains empty.

My spell comes back negative.

No boobytraps.

No heroic types.

No guards.

Unimpressed, I skulk down the passageway while my magic evaporates into smoke. My boots clap loud with each step, but I don't bother masking the sound. There is no one else here.

What, then? Could the renegades have attacked the outpost and fled? Or are these people already too familiar with honor of Asgardians, and chosen to lie in wait for an over-confident fool to blunder into their midst? This line of reasoning stops me cold.

When the passageway ends at a second strongdoor, I press my ear flat to the habrium. If there is an ambush waiting for me, this would be a good place to stage it. I close my eyes, listening past the enveloping quiet for a tattle-tale click or cough or stray footstep. No sound trickles through from inside. I hold my breath a full dozen heartbeats before reaching for the lock.

The strongdoor opens on a greased track. On the other side is a large durstone chamber with empty arms racks arrayed from six fortified walls. There is a smaller passageway extending back into a supplementary staging area I can just see from my position, crowned with three reinforced doorways. Footprints in soot betray a company who recently used this ready room to fight against an invasion. I cannot tell if they were successful. There is no one here, now.

Quiet seeps in at the corners of the world. The silence grates my ears. I hate empty silence. I want to call out to someone. Let me turn the hunt through an isolating fortress into a game of fetch-me _-_ forth _—Am I getting warmer?_

I stick my tongue between my teeth to keep my mouth shut.

Slipping through the right-hand door leads me to a short hall. The lights flicker, here. The stale air has a spongy, dense texture that puts me in mind of alchemical bombs. Airborne soot leaves an acrid sulfur residue in my throat. I can hear my breath coming loud in my ears.

What sort of people take an outpost and don't bother to set up camp or loot?

Char marks blister the floor and walls, making the hall a blasted, soot-streaked tomb. Explosions have ripped chunks from the grated walkway. An ax is buried in the far right end, deep enough to buckle the durstone.

Well done, I tell the ax's vanished wielder. I think you slew the wall. Was it a grand battle fit for the ages? Oh, the tales of Vorsgard's prowess!

The stone is not amused.

Fifteen feet onward there is a wedged-open door leading to another smoky hall, and stairs pointing down to a lower level. I take that direction, aiming a wary hand at the recess in case I need to fire off a defensive spell. Impermeable darkness drowns all but the top eight steps. The floor below is a pit of absolute black, stricken from the cosmos as a deep, Helish pool. Too dark for my Sight rune to fill with color.

The Void.

_Not_ the Void.

I conjure fire in my right hand to break the deep darkness into manageable tones. Green-tinged flames crack the abyss with make-pretend rune colors: living yellows, oranges, reds. At my command the enchanted flames flap into a ball of light and whisk down the stairs. Pops, snickers, silk ripples, whispers fill the hall with comforting noise. I follow close behind them. Emptiness prickles through my chest.

The outpost could benefit from some décor. Tapestries illustrating past victories over prior Walls, possibly. Or elvish statues—with or without the eye-bursting inverse rear facade elves seem to like—; even some of those offensively inane motivational posters Midgard started inflicting upon its serfs. Red shadows eek out uniform durstone blocks as lifeless and dull as my dungeon cell. Block after block. Step after step. On and on, and on. Warriors are not on a whole require to do much heavy lifting when it comes to having an ability to think, but even they must go mad stuck too long in a place like this.

There is a plasma rifle on the floor by the last step. My flame draws it from the lightless rift as a ghost, laying alone and unmoored in the center of a dirty, pocked habrium grate.

An abandoned rifle?

Biting cold claws up my spine. Black specks swarm my vision. I pause, hands flexed at my sides, preparing to cast the moment anyone dares leap at me.

The lower level is silent.

No sound at all from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. No one shifts in the dark outside my well of light.

I push my mask into a terse smile, and bend down to examine the lost weapon as one might examine a sweet left by some misbehaving child. I don't recognize the make or model, but the the weapon's organic sensibilities leaves a squirming pain in my throat I cannot identify.

No, I can. The mishmashed, fluid, patched-together build reminds me in an unpleasant way of the—

I don't want to think about them right now. Not in the dark. Not underground.

_Curious eyes_.

_Curious, curious eyes_.

I am not in the Void.

I am on Vorsgard.

Only Vorsgard.

I am alone.

Clapping my hands together in a joined fist, I release my flames to scatter across the ceiling's stately, even face. Green floods the level. The odd-colored shadows evaporate under real light.

I am standing in a command room.

Shattered divination scopes glitter from the dark between overturned desks, a broken Asgardian seal, and the Allfather's iconic crest. Scopes, and desks, and pieces—but no colonists. No garrison. No investigators.

No looting.

Did the anarchists merely want this garrison dead? Could they have truly had no other plan than that? Take the outpost, kill the survivors, retreat back to their hovels?

That sounds like sub-sentient aggression, rather than tactics. A wild beast slaying another who wanders too close to its territory. But if so, how _did_ a technologically inferior colony overwhelm our outpost?

I'm going to walk into a back room somewhere to find everybody drunk on the floor, aren't I? I can just picture it: Creeping through this entire fractured, desecrated fortress only to come to a last door in a last hall in a last wing with bright light shining from the seams. I'm going to huddle with my back flat against the wall, holding my breath, listening for enemy warriors. I'm going to slide open the door ve-e-e-e-ery carefully, expecting that ambush. I'm going to see the chieftain and his warriors with the defeated colonists in thrall, every last one pissed to the end of his cups.

I'm going to have give them Svaldir's unholy Grimace.

One scope at the fore is not completely smashed. The instrument lies in almost one piece, halfway under the toppled imperial flag. The divining glass is locked in an angry warning, its corrupted surface projecting white fog on the display above. I brush the glass clean with a few lazy swipes of my palm. The display isn't heavy, so I heft it like a tray between my hands and manipulate the side controls with my thumbs. The fog clears in sections, left to right. In seconds the display is revived from its stupor as the cosmos's least effective mirror, replacing my dark fire-wreathed reflection with roving shadows.

I address the divining glass: “Can you hear me?”

Garbled noise bubbles up from the display. The shadows jump and slither.

Possibly the divining glass has been told not to speak with strangers. I transform my voice into someone's . . . who is above questioning. “I am Odin Allfather, High King of Yggdrasil. I ask you again: Can you hear me?”

_Blurp. Blubb._

Oh, all right. It's broken.

After a quick check over my shoulder to ensure that I am still alone, I enchant the display to hover at eye-height while I try to fix it. This is the tedious technical sorcery I meant to have Ilda do, in sending her with the contingent to Vorsgard. Ilda likes picking apart artifacts. I dare say she loves magic devices more than people, possibly because they are the only things in the cosmos that can't outwit her just by asking for the salt. This _mechanic's_ magic, though, raised my hackles whenever the Black Tower's masters tried to make me learn. Servant's work. Bad enough to be a boy mage—and Nine Godless Realms forbid I switch to my other shape where anyone can see—but a boy mage who is also a prince does _not_ let himself be reduced to servant's work. Divination scopes should perform on command when I call for my attendant to bring one. I shouldn't have to stand here fiddling with runic pathways and charge knots. I speak and the damn device should do as I ask.

Gentle coaxing prompts a holographic aura, which I reroute by enchantment into telepathic commands. I can override the injured scope by addressing the sprite directly. The divining glass sparks and fizzes—twice. The fix isn't a _good_ solution, but my patchwork magic isn't going to be seen by anyone else.

This protracted humiliation over, I poke the display with a cautious fingertip. The shadows fly apart. The glass clears, revealing the last divination summoned by the command room's sorceress.

_Intruder_. _Warning. Intruder_. Bright alarm-red jolts the display in a scream. The warning is made colorless by my green fire, but the flash is recognizable all the same. Eight dots wink to life on the floor above me.

There you are, you cowards. Thought you would let me trap myself down here before coming to say hello?

The anarchists are congregating in a large storage hall with—if I am reading the scope correctly—a hole blasted through the outside wall into open air. The dots are lurking around their unplanned window, possibly discussing whether I am an outpost-survivor to cross off their list or someone they want to take alive. As I watch, six make an exit out the punctured wall. One more leaves the storage hall heading right, back toward the outpost's hub—in my direction. Leaving the last to stay behind as guard.

The garrison is dead. No sons of Asgard would have surrendered their outpost. There are no bodies, which means that the garrison is rotting in a mass grave somewhere and my investigatory force has already been here and gone—or been dragged away. If they're gone, I expect they are out looking for the colony. If they've been captured, they are lost. The six above me are scouts or a retrieval party, sent back here to get their hands on valuable modern supplies before my force returns—or sent to make sure there are no more unexpected visitors. Whoever these colonists are, however they overwhelmed the outpost, they are not a people I can negotiate with.

They are killers.

They will not care what I might have to say.

All right. New plan.

After I kill the man sent to assassinate me, I will place a tracking spell on their guard and take my leave. Asgard can deal with them as Asgard does best.

I set down the divining glass with a calm, cool smile. A sharp gesture dispels my green flame from the command room's ceiling. As the colorless dark crashes around my head, I wag my fingers to limber my hands for combat and climb the stairs back to the light. I feel nothing.

That's a lie.

This is going to be fun.

My poor would-be murderer is nowhere in sight when I reemerge in the staging area. I could head for the gates, but this chamber—for all its heavy damage—is filled with debris enough to make waiting here for him a smarter move. There is a broken stone table and plenty durstone rubble at my back to provide cover, plus an escape route should I need it. I won't need it. I take my time positioning myself to the right of a smoldering ex-column, where I am not visible from the left door, and conjure six throwing knives.

Footsteps clank in the adjoining hall. He's wearing armored boots. Good. That will make him slow.

I squeeze the knives in my fists.

Pebbles tremble at the hall's threshold. Rubble scrapes under a heavy gait. I can hear him at the door, now, ten feet from where I am. His breathing is a labored hiss—he is wearing a helmet with an air filter. The smoke is dangerous to him. No, he is not from Asgard.

I wish he and his friends hadn't already met the garrison. I'd have liked to scare the hell out of him stepping from behind this column dressed in all black with no breathing mask on.

His metal footsteps clank into the staging area. I tug the emotionless warrior's trance over my mind, settle into the nerveless pre-battle rush that replaces my weak flesh and bone with liquid fire. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I whirl from behind my cover, sight him for the knife throw, arms uncrossing to—

_Leering skeleton head. Oily pus-colored eyes in greasy red-rimmed sockets. Long brown teeth around a mouth black as the Void. Dark gray-gold on boiled waxen white. Grasping hands sharp nails. Curious eyes curious eyes._

The creature before me is not a colonist. It is not from Vorsgard. It is not Aesir.

A rafter collapses in my mind. My soul inverts.

The creature has a plasma rifle, although I don't see or care until a blast hits me in my left shoulder. Electric pain crackles up every flayed muscle in my body.

My limbs jerk. The durstone floor jumps from under my feet, rotating in space, smashes into my back. I arch from the floor in a congealed knot. The walls and ceiling flicker. I can't inhale. A second flash of pain. Wet warmth soaks my ribs. Damp trickles into my right eye. My knives were flung into the air when I fell. They clatter around me.

The ghoulish face appears in my vision, silhouetted against the scorched blackened ceiling. Curious curious eyes look down at me, watching to see if I can move.

My stomach floods with slippery ice. My heart shrinks so small I could disappear inside myself.

Killers? Yes.

Looters? _Yes_. What they came for wasn't weapons or technology.

The Chitauri warrior scoops up my limp, twitching hands and binds my wrists together with a pulsing yellow cord.

 

 


	6. Elves, Vanir, princes, and other assorted riff-raff.

I am thrown into a dark shaft and land on my face, which is a good thing. The fall into an old Vorsgardian dungeon from eight meters sends up dust and filmy water—in other words I, as always, make my entrance with a splash. Or I as always cause a shitstorm, depending on the contents of this dungeon's liquid element. I tuck my arms against my skull to reapply my false face before anyone sees; not a moment too soon, either.

Hands grab my shoulders. I am dragged to solid ground and shoved on my side. The movement tears open the gashes on my face and ribs. I come up fighting.

“Easy! Easy, friend.” A blurred face follows the hands. He looks Vanir. His scarred hands say Aesir. I don't know his name. “Hold out your wrists,” he says.

“ _Why?_ ”

My vision clears.

A dozen people occupy the gloomy dungeon besides me. Not Chitauri; Aesir. I am surrounded by warriors—Aesir warriors—dressed in underclothes, including an obese knob-faced woman wearing someone's breeches and . . . Ilda.

I sigh from the utmost edge of my tattered soul.

Here at last is the remnant of my investigation.

The Vanir brandishes an astrium dagger and a friendly smile. He is a barrel-chested warrior, tough-looking, with shiny black hair and a close-cropped beard—but my blood turns to ice. “Wrists here, friend. I am going to cut your binds.”

Trick. Trap.

“Where did you get that?” I demand.

The Vanir gives me a wounded, mistrustful glare. He waves his dagger at the forlorn crowd around us. “Our sorceress, she concealed this weapon when those creatures overwhelmed our ranks.”

Could he be lying?

No.

No, if the Chitauri wanted to welcome me back by slicing off my hands, they wouldn't waste time with a puppet show. This Vanir-warrior is honest: I am a prisoner among fellow prisoners. For now.

I hold out my arms. The Vanir snaps the yellow cord with a single fluid cut. He says, “I am Hruothban Adarson of Asgard,” as if this is the very best thing in the entire cosmos. He is one of those perpetually happy people, I can tell.

All right, Hruothban Adarson. It's time for a new lie.

I incline my head to a polite degree for a nonentity addressing a warrior. “Vyir the Enchanter of Alfheim.”

Hruothban cocks his head sidways as if this is me trying to put one over on him. “You are not an elf.”

Oh really? I hadn't noticed. “I'm a thrall,” I invent. “A sorcerer to the Rain Court, of Alfheim. My masters heard rumors of a strange force amassing in this realm and sent me as a scout.”

“To Vorsgard?” A short, cleanshaven warrior slinks up behind Hruothban, scowling at me through a half-missing lip.

I make myself grow still. I count to five. “This is Vorsgard?” I whisper. Then, passionately, to Hruothban, “Asgard was once my home; I will tell you all that I have found so long as you ask me nothing that will compromise my masters' House.”

Hruothban stows his dagger. He holds out a friendly hand, and a smile. “Well met, Vyir the Enchanter.”

We clasp arms.

Ilda comes over to stand at Hruothban's left, looking sad and misplaced in a white silk undergown. She, being a good little sorceress, waits for the head warrior to acknowledge her existence before speaking.

Hruothban gestures for Ilda to join us. “Vyir, this woman is Ilda Ildurssdottir. She is the sorceress I told you about.”

Ilda bobs her head. Still the mousy, round, gold-haired mute I remember from before my fall.

“Well met,” I say.

Ilda parrots my greeting in sotto voice. She offers me water from a metal bowl, which isn't like the Chitauri to leave, and I notice a large astrium betrothal ring on her left hand. A lord's gift. Which lord, I wonder?

The bowl is placed in my hands with all the ceremony of a mead-sharing, which is what it's supposed to stand in for. _I know you now, and you know me_ , it says _. We've had a drink together. We're all friends here, right?_ _Right?_

“These creatures,” Hruothban says when I've soothed my scorched throat, “they are a species strange to me. Do your elves know them?”

Another warrior joins the group to hear what the elf-thrall has to say: a skinny giant whose flame-red hair and beard are trying to eat his face. Ilda and Cleaved-Lip move aside to let him through. The other prisoners hang back, giving their leaders room to interrogate me.

“The Chitauri,” I say. I am trembling.

Hruothban nods, as if this means anything at all to him. “So . . . what do these Chitauri want?”

“Pain. In you. In everyone.” Some black alchemy in my skull takes the sick, hollowed feeling in my chest and turns it into a manic rush. Rather than trembling, I now have to fight the insane leer creeping up my face. “They are quite single-minded in that way.”

Hruothban's expression turns to stone. He shares a glance with Cleaved-Lip and Beard-Face. “They took Ilofn and Oddoutril some hours ago.”

“Oh,” I say. That's all I _can_ say.

An ill shadow settles over the group of prisoners. Their terse, sullen faces magnify my diseased terror back at me. I can smell sour wounds yet to come, phantom limbs, missing teeth, nights filled by beating your head with bloodied fists, fingernails tearing at one's own throat in the hollow where future means an unquenchable red flood.

They don't know it yet. I can see it in their steady, unblinking eyes. The determined jaws set against what enemy they think may come. Enemies make threats and ultimatums, right? Enemies are to be fought. The fools don't know. They're still worried about honor.

_Honor_.

There is honor in being a warrior. There is honor in being a _dead_ warrior. There is honor, even, in being a thrall. The trick is: don't scream too much. If one does scream too much, there's still hope. There's still honor: Make them kill you.

_The Chitauri won't kill you_.

Curious. They're curious.

They like to explore.

Jittery scrabbling inside my arms. Inside my chest. I can't breathe.

You're fools. You're all fools. I'm not you. I'm not here with you.

“Slave?” Ilda says.

What was and what is rights itself. The trembly drowned feeling sucks away, replaced by iron heat. I surface.

“Yes?” I can taste bitter acid.

“You said that you were an enchanter,” she murmurs. Even when addressing a thrall Ilda sounds apologetic. “Can you—maybe—enchant yourself to climb up the wall and along the ceiling?” She looks away, and I follow her eyeline up our smooth, cylindrical prison. This dungeon was an alchemical tank in a former life. The high walls are polished habrium, too smooth to climb without magic. Eight meters up there is a sealed hatch, but no doors or windows. Dusty bones, gravel, the water bowl, and the suspicious liquid tell me that the Chitauri are not the first to make use of this place as a prison.

“He should send a warrior,” Cleaved-Lip says. “It shouldn't be a woman or a thrall.”

“But—” Ilda starts.

Hruothban slaps my shoulder. “Vyir, my new friend, can you enchant _me_ to climb up the wall?”

_Loki, can you make their swords into paper?_ A different voice. A different time. _Brother, think of it! They will swing at us and be astonished when their blades come apart in their hands._

“You don't understand how it works,” I say. “Magic isn't wishes; I can't make you able to climb solid habrium just because I might want to.”

“Why not?” Cleaved-Lip demands. He crosses his arms and stares down at me.

“Oh, goody,” I sneer. “Here's a lesson in magic for you: I can paint runes on your bare feet and hands to make you stick to the wall, yes. But the moment your enchanted skin touches a surface we'd have to cut off your hands and feet to get you free again. Shall we try it?”

The warriors fall grim.

“Could you lift someone up by magic?” Ilda says. “I told them lifting things up by magic is only for small things, like moving levers or summoning coils. But do you think--?”

“No,” I say. “The forces at play would break your bones.”

“Can you paint your sticking runes on a length of rope?” Hruothban says, mildly. “We could throw the rope's end up to the ceiling and simply climb to the hatch.”

I swallow an irritated retort. “And where, pray tell me, would we get enough rope?”

Hruothban plucks at his undertunic with a theatrical thumb and forefinger.

That's . . . not actually a terrible idea. I'm impressed. “ _If_ we can find a weight heavy enough to stabilize the throw,” I say. “You'll have a limited number of tries. We can wrap the weight in an extra cloth and write the runes on that, so if you miss we can untie the cloth and try again. The runes will bind irrevocably to whatever they touch: The floor. The wall. Another part of the rope. Your face.”

Hruothban flashes a brilliant, happy smile. “I won't miss.”

Naturally not.

He rolls to his feet and raises a fist to rally the other prisoners to us. Our little council meeting is over. “We will use tight formations,” he commands. “If we have the element of surprise—”

“Before anyone tries to climb up into the middle of a Chitauri fun-fest,” I say, “I'm going to cast an illusion to make them believe we've already escaped. That should scatter them; confuse them.”

“You have grown too accustomed to the Elves,” Cleaved-Lip sneers. “We are not afraid like your masters.”

I re-tune my brain to Channel Idiot. “There _will_ be glorious battle against them,” I promise, heading off the Second Worst Idea in twenty minutes. The first being, Let's paint eternal sticking runes on our bare feet and plant our bare feet on unbreakable habrium. “I _myself_ was privileged to hear of it when the mighty Thor Odinson slew a great number from their host on Midgard--”

“They are the ones who attacked Midgard?” Hruothban's smile turns to glass. “This the army once marshaled by the traitor, Prince Loki.”

Nice.

A clamoring yell sounds from the others. Shouts and oaths echo from the smooth walls; competing voices roar against our metal prison: Vows that will take off the heads from each so-called Chitauri, promises about how our captors should die and in what order, how many generations will be wet upon our swords.

“Let them die without honor!” Beard-Face howls.

I prowl up to Hruothban's side. He is the center of this frenzied storm, showing off a bicep in frozen, obligatory rally-pose.

He no longer looks half so happy.

_Curious eyes._

“You're planning to fight the Chitauri as an Asgardian warrior,” I say. “If you do, you and your band will die.”

Without moving his ready arm, without faltering in the slightest, Hruothban flicks his gaze toward me. “What makes you say this thing?” He speaks in an undertone, so the riot around us won't hear.

“What do you do with foes?” I sigh. “You fight them, you kill them, you move on before the dead ones can summon the rest.” I take a breath. I can taste my own heart. “The Chitauri are a hive mind. As soon as you kill one, the others will know exactly where you are and how you fight. They will swarm you.”

Color bleeds from his face as fast as if I've cut his throat. “You see it now, don't you. They won't advance on you in regular battle lines, but neither will they fight you as guerillas. This is a new form of warfare.”

Hruothban says, “How did Prince Thor fight them?”

“He didn't. A Chitauri puppet opened a hole in space between their home and Midgard, so all Prince Thor and his mortal warband had to do was close the hole. The battle ended prematurely.”

Hruothban hesitates. “You are talking about Prince Loki. I do not think you are right, calling him a puppet.”

No, I wasn't. I bypass this, however, without comment. “Listen, the Chitauri waiting to get through to Midgard were unable to continue the attack _and_ the Chitauri trapped on Midgard were cut off from the hive mind, which rendered them catatonic. An elegant solution. The battle ended without lengthy bloodshed.”

“The hive is on Vorsgard?” he says.

White noise erupts behind my eyes. I see empty space.

Hruothban says, “If they must fight within the same realm as their—what, king?--then you are telling me that this king is in our realm.”

“No.”

“You said that they are catatonic if the—”

A bottomless pit opens just below my ribs and whatever was inside of me, comprising me, is ripped through. My skin is a loose bag around shapeless blood and bile. Screaming. There is screaming in my head. It isn't me.

Hruothban is no longer pretending to join the in his band's martial dance. He is a dark, nebulous shape to my right. He says, somewhere, “Could the cowardly Prince Loki have opened a second portal before facing his death on Svartalfheim?” It doesn't matter. I'm not listening to him.

_Vorsgard_.

Vorsgard?

How have they come to Vorsgard?

More importantly, why?

A few scouts I could understand. But _this_ . . ?

Political currents whisper just out of sight. I can feel the shape of things unfolding many decades ago:

The Other laying plans to invade Midgard to seize back the Tesseract. How, before his Chitauri ran across me lost in the dark? What would they have done, instead?

The Convergence.

A sickened tremor worms into my stomach.

They would have plotted to march through the Converging gates between realms in full force. They would have slaughtered whatever mortals lay in their path.

My heart grabs higher up my throat. I cannot suppress a shudder.

I fucked that up for them, of course. The Tesseract wasn't on Midgard by the time the Convergence came around.

No.

No, they had to recast their nets for deeper waters. They have to steal back the Tesseract from somewhere more dangerous: shining, lovely, golden, glorious Asgard.

A hand closes around my left wrist tight enough that I yell.

“ _Enchanter_ ,” Hruothban says. He releases me.

I am fizzing. My skull swarms with carrion flies.

Hruothban says, “These Chitauri, do you think they have honor enough to wish to kill whatsoever killed their leader?”

“What?” His words make no sense.

“I wonder if they are after revenge,” he say. “Prince Loki died on Svartalfheim. Could they blame Asgard for his death and want war with us to reclaim his honor?”

_Once war is declared a realm has the right to reclaim its honor in battle_. That is what Frigga said.

Idiot, idiot, stupid honor.

Here, though, is an opening.

I seize Hruothban's undershirt, wrenching my face into earnest dismay. “Revenge on Asgard! I hope you are not correct. Never mind our battle with they who would dare take us captive; we must escape to warn the city!”

Hruothban gathers our warrior's council from the bloodthirsty riot: Beard-Face, Cleaved-Lip, and Ilda Tongue-Tied. They go silent once the situation is explained.

“Let me cast the illusion that we've already escaped,” I say. “When our captors open the hatch to see where we've gone we must dispatch them quickly. There is no glory to be had if we die and leave Asgard unprotected. Strike hard, strike fast, strike lethal. _One_ hit. Don't draw the Chitauri into open battle. Hide and run. Kill only when you have to. Once we make the surface, head for the bifrost site.”

“These Chitauri will think we are cowards,” Beard-Face says.

“We would be cowards,” Cleaved-Lip adds.

“I would rather my enemies think me a coward than betray Asgard,” I say.

“The Enchanter is right.” Hruothban stares them in the eyes, one and then the next, puffing up to corral his pack. “If we fight now we risk leaving Asgard at the mercies of these creatures. Sometimes it is better to run than lose everything should we fall. Today is not a day to die.”

“Your battle will be on Asgard,” I agree—fancy that. “The entire city will witness your bravery. Today, however, it is time to prove your loyalty.”

“Loyalty?” This does not sit well with Cleaved-Lip.

“Yes.” I smirk. “Would you have your ancestors know that an elven thrall bears more loyalty than the sons of Asgard?”

“Never!”

Hruothban orders his band to be silent while I set about laying my illusion. The Chitauri who took me captive did not recognize me; there are ways to prevent a sorcerer from using magic and, happily, this tim e around none have been applied. A few deft charms erase our sounds. A hush falls over the dungeon which has nothing to do with warrior discipline. Another charm vanishes our shadows. A third removes our ripples from the wet floor.

Hruothban takes a practice step and, to his evident delight, finds that he has become the most surefooted assassin in Nine Realms. “This sorcery is eerie. Under your spell, a warrior might walk into his enemy's hall undetected.”

“But that would be dishonorable!” I cry.

Hruothban shakes his head. “Thrall, when this day is ended, give to me your masters' names. I will pay for your release. Such power should not be in the hands of the Elves.”

This would delight Vyir, so I play my part as a grateful servant: lavishing praise upon the oh-so-noble warriors of Asgard, pledging to serve faithfully in all their endeavors . . . that sort of self-flagellating rubbish.

Ilda appears without warning at my side. “I have never seen this enchantment before,” she murmurs to the dead space behind me. “Is this magic you learned from the elves?”

Who remembers? The wrong sort of Elves or the imprisoned sort of Vanir or books on dark magic I lifted, bought, or traded for in some unregulated hollow at the far reaches of space. I had the advantage of my title, of course: I could exchange my false face for my real one and lead Black Tower enforcers to such places, in the event that my contact had a stubborn streak, and confiscate what books of intrigue I could not barter for. Those were interesting days: raking up minor glory ridding the universe of dark sorcery and, in my off-hours, learning how to do better what my targets could not. I am by no means the first sorcerer who dedicated centuries to prying apart the wrong spellbooks, after all. The Dark Arts, the Dire Arts, the Mortuary Arts, Necromancy, Sanguine Rites, Pale Spells . . . it all blends together in the end.

“Oh, no,” I tell Ilda. “From Nithavellir. They use this magic for insulating living quarters, you see? The mines and industry can be quite imposing there.”

I cast my invisibility spells before she can ask any more questions. Light remaps the dungeon, bending around us to reform within the habrium cylinder littered with its skeletal debris and foul water as a perfect recreation—minus a dozen Aesir and myself.

In the pool below my illusion the world is a messy, flickering afterimage. My hands are nebulous impressions in a pulsating soup. The warriors are sketchy shapes, phantasmic holes where magic resonates beyond the visible spectrum—ghosts. We are ghosts.

Residual, scalding _want_ speeds the blood in my temples to a surging ache. What I would have given to have my magic the last time I came across the Chitauri. This all-consuming, expanding need fills me from scalp to heels, until my lungs strain for air against unobtainable desire. If only I had been Loki, Prince of Asgard instead of a squalling bundle of severed nerves.

Freed from any chance discovery via poorly-timed inspections, Hruothban orders four warriors besides himself to strip down to base undergarmets. I am the final person required to give up my goods for the group's benefit, being the owner of a near-indestructible biosuit whose quality is—could you believe it?--high enough to befit royalty. Fancy that. Ilda, being a woman, is assigned position as rope-maker while the warriors regroup to strategize. Ilda, being an enchantress, binds our clothing together with a few simple spells. She tries to catch my attention to continue our conversation about how I'm not a dark sorcerer, but I avoid her to join Hruothban.

When my warrior friend gives his order I conjure another throwing knife set for his fellows' use. The warband fans out to encompass the dungeon, making practice swipes with my enchanted blades or leaping in place to loosen muscles. Ilda passes Hruothban our rope, and I find a nice unobtrusive shadow from which to observe. A cold fist sinks through my ribcage at the thought of seeing the Chitauri again. I grind my teeth together.

Hruothban circles the the waterlogged floor. He settles upon someone's boot, wraps it in a spare undertunic, and has Ilda spells this to the rope's end for weight.

We are ready.

Hruothban gives me a nod. He passes the boot into my hands without a word.

“You don't want to make a practice throw?” I demand.

He grins at me.

I say, “Once I paint these runes there is no failsafe. If the boot ricochets without landing it may stick to a wall. You'll have to climb the rope to untie it before trying again.”

He gives me another thousand-gold-piece smile, visible even through my ghostly illusion. Oh, very well.

I spell my index finger in casting ink and draw a Curse of Binding to the cloth's top face. Hruothban lifts the result from my grip. He paces back to the dungeon's center, just left from the hatch eight meters above, and twirls the rope like a sling. When he lets loose, the cloth-wrapped boot slams into the habrium ceiling with a deep, echoing _thrumm_.

And doesn't fall.

I let out a breath. Muffled cheering erupts among his warband. Hruothban waves them to silence. Huh. The son of a Jotun whore did it.

The stage is set. Lights down. Curtain up.

I fabricate an illusion that the bifrost blasts into our prison. Prismatic light explodes in a brilliant flash, which our captors cannot help but see.

The icy knot which used to be my internal organs evaporates into an acidic cloud. I am an empty casing with a cold, impermeable wall digging into my spine.

Footsteps clump above.

I have just drawn the Chitauri to me, on purpose.

I am a small, in-Aesir thing curled in on its own body in a prison many worlds from home. I am two beings: the one pressed to a wall, and the creature huddled inside.

The hatch opens.

A blue searchbeam bisects the gloom, sweeping the prison's contours like a tongue. The light bends around Hruothban and his warriors while giving all appearance that it continues its original trajectory, and falls to a damp stop inches shy from my toes. I creep tighter to the wall.

Three Chitauri warriors drop through the hole into our dungeon. They are hideous symmetrical constructs fused from tissue and armor. All three carry plasma rifles.

Hruothban signals his warband to position themselves. He shadows the Chitauri leader, who is a monstrous abomination in bruised, corpse-color plate mail. In utter silence, Hruothban glides above the rank dungeon floor on easy, confidant feet. His powerful stride brings him close enough to strike in a few graceful heartbeats; he unsheathes Ilda's invisible dagger and, with a quick, almost careless precision, drags his weapon across the Chitauri's throat. The creature wheezes as slimy ichor splashes its front. A followthrough stroke shreds it heart—or would, if Chitauri had hearts. They seemed so curious about mine I'm inclined to think they don't. It backhands Hruothban into the ground.

We can't have that.

I collide with the Chitauri leader, get a lungful of imminent pain, and snake my arms around its ugly, synthetic body. When I rip my hands backward, my knife cleaves through its wrists. The creature drives its shoulder into my collarbone. The walls invert—I'm flat to the floor, hands tangled in a plasma rifle, reptilian weight on top of me. The Chitauri draws back one arm and its armored elbow cracks my skull. The rifle is wrenched from my grasp. I hear it skitter across the floor.

The _smell—_

The cold, alien, primal weight. Its breath gushes over my face and neck. Sweet smells. Chemical solvents. Sterile room. I jerk my right leg up, trying to catch it in a vulnerable joint, and my knee punches soft tissue. The Chitauri vaults into the air—falls as Hruothban snags it by one shoulder and finishes his work.

Across the room, Cleaved-Lip trips the monster he's stalking while Beard-Face tears the rifle from its hands. A mob grapples with the downed Chitauri, rending it apart—the third is missing.

The fight broke my illusion. I reapply my false face before anyone notices. I am panting, half-blind, covered in black ichor.

Hruothban appears above me, flashing his mute smile. He holds out his hand.

This— _this_ —am I taken for so weak that I need help standing up? I roll upright in a flurry without his aid, thank you, swiping slime from my jaw.

“Our invisibility is gone,” Hruothban says. If I have offended him, he doesn't let on. He is smiling again.

The dungeon is quiet, now, even without the muting spells. The second Chitauri is motionless at the room's far end, but the final is still . . . No. There it is. It's being removed from the floor's center once piece at a time while Ilda stands nearby, wringing her hands together in her lap and staring at her thumbs. She sees me watching and, sounding somewhat embarrassed, says, “There was a faulty charge knot in his armor. I redirected it. I thought his armor would seize up. I didn't know he would . . .”

“It,” I say, without rancor. “They are not _he_ s.”

The exploded Chitauri is no easier to look at than its whole-ish counterparts. I have to inhale and exhale twice through my nose before recasting our charms and invisibility. This isn't the sort of magic one wants to get wrong.

Hruothban and his pals, Beard-Face and Cleaved-Lip, shoulder the plasma rifles. They shimmy up the rope and Ilda follows, tying her gown around her knees for easier ascent. She seems to realize too late that the hatch is already gone, and tries to cover by pretending that she is helping fight our way to escape.

And—why not? Except for the blow to our warband's pride, a mechanical-minded enchantress could make a pretty effective weapon against the bio-electrical Chitauri.

She and Hruothban kill two more who were waiting above.

“How long until the hive mind finds us?” Hruothban asks, once I have followed the others up to surface level. Ilda unspells our rope, and we dress in hasty silence.

I give my warrior friend a sideways glance. “They've already found us.”

He hooks a finger under his left gauntlet for an experimental tug. His face registers nothing I've said.

“Now you run,” I explain.

He grins.

Beard-Face examines his rifle. The warriors are silent.

Ice trickles into my stomach.

Hruothban claps both hands on the woman in breeches. “Fiostla, my good friend, you must lead the other back to the bifrost site. Tell Odin-King what we have discovered.”

“I would stay.”

Hruothban shakes his head. “Asgard must be made aware. You are in command now. Lur, Braeggvild, and I are going to rescue our sword-brothers.”

_Curious curious eyes._

I can feel the captives as an extension of myself. What were their names? There are two people the Chitauri took. I can _feel_ them in my head, under my skin, in my throat, fusing _then_ with _now_. They are pressure inside my chest I cannot shake.

Hruothban finishes making his good-byes. I stagger forward, one slack foot at a time, to interrupt.

“I'm coming too,” I say. “But we'll need to hurry.”

 

 


	7. A Way In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I feel a bit silly. I posted the wrong version of this chapter yesterday. I completely forgot a good seven hundred words that are supposed to go after the break. Oops. Fixed it!

As afternoon shrouds us in a dull white haze, we follow Cleaved-Lip—Braeggvild to his father, apparently—away from our alchemical prison deeper into the industrial complex. Our dungeon sat at the edge of a steep hillside whose base is wiped away in rippling, white fog. Other complexes rise beyond that ephemeral ocean, here and there, as islands in a blank sea of nothing. Pipes, grids, rails, carts, and staircases spread out above and below us like a metal spiderweb. There is an old factory tower rising on our left, and to our right are massive habrium cylinders much like the one we just vacated. The natural world has encroached with the humidity, littering the habrium walkways with simple mosses that form mosaic carpets underfoot. No clanking, booming, billowing, or subtle sighs permeate the derelict air; what ancient, eroding machinery lies all around are clenched tight in rigor mortis. The complex survives through its barest skeleton; this sprawling creation is at least eight thousand years old.

“What would these Chitauri do with prisoners?” Hruothban says in a low voice. “Question them for Asgard's weaknesses? Ilofn and Oddoutril will give them nothing. Prince Loki's army will have to kill them.”

The Aesir, for the most part, do not take prisoners. Enemies are to be slain in glorious battle, or put to work as thralls. Separating two captives from the rest makes no sense in this mindset. Any other possibilities—trying to divide and sway weaker-willed prisoners onto one's side, for example—are dishonorable. If dishonorable things happen to Asgard's prisoners, as they must from time to time, I was never made privy.

“Tracks.” Braeggvild stops at the edge of a filthy slope, beside a horse-sized pipe crammed with poisonous-smelling mushrooms. Hruothban cheerfully drops to one knee beside him, the better to examine what is—I am not lying—an unremarkable green-brown moss identical to every other mossy spot in this haunted wasteland.

“They will fear for their lives,” Lur vows. “Mother Chitauris will warn their sons of us for generations to come.”

Braeggvild's cleaved lip twitches in a ghoulish scowl. “These are low-level repulsor scores. They are airborne. They've gone this way at some speed, maybe a meter from the ground.”

Hruothban rights himself and thumps Braeggvild's back. “Show me.”

We take the slope at a run, ziggzagging as the incline funnels out into a slippery depression where the ground is more water than mud. Primordial slime slathers my boots. Scummy water splashes up my knees. Braeggvild forges ahead heedless to the muck, presumably picking up a trail from the whiskery roots that strangle the depression's crumbling walls. Hruothban, Lur, and I wade after him. To my eyes this tattle-tale vegetation resembles nothing except for possibly Lur's overenthusiastic facial hair . . . I wonder if tracking is a skill I should acquire for my life in hiding. I might need to defend myself from marauders. Or give them cause to defend themselves from me.

A huge dark hole opens in the roots along the left wall: a tunnel descending into the rotten ground. Severed pipes poke from the gaping subterranean depths. More piping criss-crosses the underground ceiling, walls, and floors as a filthy, metal catacomb.

No—a honeycomb.

My heart shrinks. I have seen structures like this before, only cleaner, neater. Built into an asteroid field.

If this old industrial tunnel looks familiar to me, it would have looked like home to our quarry.

“They are in that,” I say.

Hruothban squelches to a stop, ahead.

Braeggvild says, “What makes you so sure?”

“Ah!” Lur says. “A good place for hiding.”

“Check it,” Hruothban orders.

Braeggvild approaches the tunnel, staring at the ground plastered around the black entrance. Whatever he sees gives him pause. He hesitates a full dozen heartbeats before saying, “Your new thrall is right.”

“Of course he is!” Hruothban thumps a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Summon a light, Enchanter. We will seek these cowards in their den.”

“What part of _they will swarm you_ do you not understand?” I say. My heart is trying to slither up my throat agin. “Come here. I'll draw a rune on you to give you Sight in darkness.”

* * *

 

 

Open space is not a good area for long-term residency. Every hour in the Void between stars is a small eternity, each eternity piled one upon the next in relentless crushing waves. Imagine yourself, right here. Or in your room, better.

Your room.

Now, take away the furniture. Take away your home. Take away your flatmates and their cars that never work, especially in the rain. Take away your office and the people you pass on the streets, or speak to on the telephone. All the schools are closed. All cinemas are silent. No more London. No more California. All your friends are gone. All your family is gone. There are no more police. No receptionists. No Internet. Your children are gone. Your marriage is gone. Your world is gone. Your system is gone. The only person left in all the universe is _you_.

Your loneliness is a second person inside you, wearing your shell as its skin. You are a hollow mask. Your isolation is so full that you cease to exist.

What is the point of language? You speak a language of _one_.

Words mean nothing at all outside your own head. Everything in your mind—everything you can think of—is gone forever. All that's left in the cosmos is inside your own hateful, damnable memories; here and gone in a thought.

You _ache_ to be able to vanish in a thought. If everything in the cosmos can disappear in an instant, why can't you?

You can't.

There is no un-doing. There is no going back.

 _Make it stop_.

Soon, words and phrases start sticking out in your mind. You realize you can play games with sounds: making noise that means nothing—what does it matter?; taking one word that has a very nice texture and making a song out of it: starting low and going high, or starting high and meandering low and then going high again, like a tolling bell. Bells—hilltops, churches, brides, white, fog, city, light, nightclub, people. Walking through grass and trees. You talk to yourself because if you don't talk to yourself, the Cosmos is too empty to bear.

Then, after a long long while, you start imagining that if you can only believe hard enough you can _hear_ the singing of birds and whispering grasses. You can _make_ people appear beside you. You won't be alone any more. And— _oh—_ that . . . to not be alone with your own thoughts. To get away from the creature wrapped in your own head.

When the Chitauri pulled me from my endless drifting, I thought I had been rescued. I remember lights booming in the deep dark. Pinprick stars receded under a real, moving glow. This was an act of creation on par with the start of Time. With so many eternities spent screaming in my head, I never knew if I really _really_ shouted when grasping mechanical arms clamped ice prongs around my boney chest. So long had passed since I had seen any light. My starved brain couldn't make sense of the movement, the touch. I goggled up at the solid metal bulk tugging me into its belly without comprehending the ship.

If I'm not wholly mad now, I certainly was then. Lights and movement—and sound: the gorgeous catastrophic energy of _sound_ , crashing booming breathing being—smashed me into a billion little pieces. Nothing I witnessed made any connection at all. Bright glowy-things and wall-things and floors and objects, any objects, alarms and voices—living moving real _real_ alive beings—entered my cosmos for the first time in an ocean of eternities. I was birthed anew in metal claws. I flailed my stick-arms and kicked against my spacefaring cradle. I re-entered the universe as a wailing, sobbing infant in a thousand-year-old body. I was entirely senseless.

And I was theirs.

The tunnel into Vorsgard plunges down for almost two kilometers. Flattened habrium pipes lay steps for us to ease the way, but the metal is treacherous in a sharp grade half-buried with dirt and vegetable scum. Hruothban creeps ahead in the red shadows, beckoning us forward one secluded cover at a time. I crawl, face down, pressed so tight to the dirt that the brown stink of pipe and ground, crusted mud and green-brown carpet fills my soul with a pungent acrid grave-smell. The odor is almost a tactile, manacle presence but worse, underneath it all, is a familiar reptilian musk.

My throat spasms. I squeeze my right hand in a fist. My bare fingers ache. I want my invisible bag.

I don't know how to explain my invisible bag's _contents_ , but between fantastically having the Gauntlet and not having the Gauntlet I am willing to take the risk. I'd think up a good lie afterward.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Magic. Wishes.

_Brother! Can you turn their swords into paper?_

I left the bag under a wall. I don't think it can be discovered, inside a ruin within ruins, but I must retrieve the bag before we leave Vorsgard. If the Chitauri find it we are lost.

If the Chitauri find me, I am lost.

I force my eyes open. Forward, forward.

I hate the two prisoners we're coming after.

Why did I agree to come? I could have dug up my bag and teleported from the bifrost site, through the gap in Vorsgard's wards, anywhere I wanted to go. Back to Midgard, maybe. Go get a stiff drink.

Red red florescent pain silhouettes the two men, in my head. I can't push them away. I can't leave them down here.

I want to.

I can always magic myself invisible if we are spotted. Let Hruothban, Lur, and Braeggvild buy my ticket to safety.

Rock pillars grow from the ground ahead, separating the downward slat from a flat area—a horizontal cavern. Hruothban drops behind a pillar's base and waves us to his side. Braeggvild, Lur, and I huddle up beside him in a breathless hush. Bioluminescence spills from the cavern's toothy opening in a sickly blue wave, slicking the flattened pipes in a sheen like sweat. I am shivering again.

“I will go first,” Hruothban says. He knocks his plasma rifle into guard position. “Enchanter, you stick close to my left and provide magic aid should I require any. Stay within range so I can cover you.”

“Or I can make us invisible,” I say. This may be dishonorable, but Thor and his friends learned not to mind me sharing their adventures whenever Odin's son decided we should have a happy bonding experience—my skills allowed us to walk right into Laufey-King's palace on Jotunheim without being caught.

“We should not use his magic in place of skill,” Braeggvild warns, but he sounds hesitant. Honor or no honor, there _is_ something gratifying about being able to slip into a enemy's stronghold _literally_ invisible.

Hruothban flashes his broad smile. This is still a game to him. A glorious adventure. “Vyir, my very good friend, make us invisible should we find ourselves in an emergency. Such a time may come when we are very grateful for magic. Otherwise, save your reserves.”

That was tactful. I give him a _Yes, my lord_ as befits some squashed dullard like Vyir. My pulse is fizzing in my ears. It hurts to breathe.

“Braegg,” Hruothban orders next; “Lur: follow us at three-pace-tail. We are eyes first, claws as last resort.”

Hruothban thumps my arm. That touch is almost too much. I recoil.

We head for the bioluminescence, staying low and watching the cavern for movement. Hruothban selects a route that keeps us close to the left wall, sheltering us from prying eyes—at least from that direction. Mineral deposits crust the ceiling and floor in uneven serrated fangs. A sweet stench like overripe figs drifts between the rocky jaws, filling my lungs with disembodied horror. I can smell my prison down here.

Hruothban ducks behind a low outcropping and drags me after. Although the cavern continues ahead, he points to a gap that leads down a steeper plunge into a sticky recess. We ease along this side path inch by inch until we're well out of sight. I almost bolt when the ground slurps at my boots. When I put a hand on a stalagmite for balance, my palm comes away wet with slime. The cave floor is coated in transparent ooze.

I cast two more silencing spells: one for me and one for Hruothban, lest our sticky footsteps alert anything that might be listening.

 _If they catch me_ . . .

 _If they catch me_ . . .

My chest hurts.

Images race past: what they look like, what they sound like, how it will feel to vanish from sight, how the ground with clank underfoot as I dash for the surface. They aren't ambush predators. They'll show themselves first. They enjoy intimidation. If I prepare for the moment, maybe I won't be caught in pathetic stupor the second time.

I don't want to know how I must look to Hruothban and the warriors behind us: a trembling, broken coward. A ruin. I am not the person I was before I fell.

Ten meters farther on the ooze grows thick underfoot. The slime congeals into a white wrinkled dough half a meter high, filling our path from one side to the other. Black pustules the size of butterfruits swell from the slick expanse, hard-surfaced and darkly engorged.

A tremor races down my arms.

Hruothban's back tenses. He's evaluating this new sight as a potential threat.

“It's waste,” I say. “This is a byproduct from outfitting a weapon they call the Leviathan. The pustules are parasites that thrive in charged, nutrient-rich compounds.”

Hruothban does not move. “Can it see us?”

“The parasites?”

He gives me a sloppy smile.

“The parasites don't have eyes.”

That's good enough for him. Hruothban strides toward the ooze. I grab his wrist.

“Don't touch them! They . . . secrete a powerful acid if disturbed.”

Hruothban turns around to regard me. A pinched line forms between his brows. His unspoken question etches his angular face with sudden mistrust.

“The Elves,” I invent, “captured one. I got a fairly good look at it. As I have said: I will share any information I can so long as you ask me nothing to compromise my masters. Even after your pay for my return to Asgard I must maintain this request.”

He waves this honor-bound blithering aside, but it serves to satisfy him. We start forward with maintained care, pausing only so he can signal my warning about the parasites to Braeggvild and Lur.

The line between his brows does not abate.

The over-ripe fig smell increases as we step up onto the dough. Hruothban's agile, well-muscled stride navigates the dough's minefield without hesitation. I . . . find a route more cautiously. There is a barb-wire fence inside my head eight times larger than any individual pustule. Any time I get too close, phantom pain crackles up my right hand.

“Say! Did your science tutors ever give you starch to play with?” I say to him, to take my mind off of everything we're doing.

“Science tutors?” Hruothban laughs. “Do you take me for a councilor's son? No, no. I went to the common school like everybody else.”

“This stuff we're ankle-deep in reminds me of the day my brother and I had fun making war with wet starch.” I can hear the words coming out of my mouth, but it's not me talking. “You can turn starch into a goo with something—I don't remember now—and it stays more-or-less solid so long as you keep it moving. We were supposed to play nice and then get on to the next lesson, but I put a handful on his seat when he wasn't looking and after he sat down—no force alive could stop us. He climbed on my chest and raked it through my hair, so I had to smack some in his face. I think they were only able to pry us apart after we were both blind, deaf, gagging, and had starch dripping from our shorts. That was a very good day.”

Hruothban nimbly skirts a pustule. His passage kicks up a slimy chunk that slaps a monster. Black liquid erupts from the parasite in a steaming, foul-smelling pool. Acid boils through the dough, leaving behind a blistered, weeping ruin that almost looks like melted skin.

I speed up to avoid the runoff and fall in place closer by his side. “Say! I wouldn't worry for your shield-brothers. They will be happy we are coming for them. Imagine if we abandoned them. What if we had left them here, to an uncertain fate? Imagine if we never bothered to come looking. What sort of people would we be, do you think? If we never bothered to come looking. Do you think we would be right? Would you be worthy of a red cloak, if you have a red cloak? You're not a member of the War Council, Hruothban, are you?”

He makes a sharp gesture at me, a wordless warning that I should be silent. His face is tense, almost incredulous.

Anyway.

We seemed to have arrived at the ooze's point of origin. The mass under our feet has thickened to cement. Above us, the stalactites run heavy with long streamers of glistening transparent waste. There is a cavity in the ceiling between rocky formations, looking up into industrial double doors.

“What is above us?” Hruothban is so quiet that I have to lean forward to hear him.

A hanger, I suspect. If this passageway is thick with cybernetic waste, there must be lots of nasty playthings up above. The Chitauri will be readying their invasion for Asgard. I make Vyir say, “How in Nine Wretched Realms do I know?”

Lur and Braeggvild reach our position a few moment later, and join their leader's examination of our way forward. Lur locks and unlocks his plasma rifle, and Braeggvild voices what I can _smell_ the warriors thinking: “Can we blast through those doors?”

“That looks like a waste chute.” Hruothban sounds hesitant. “I suspect it is alarmed.”

“Good time we see a battle,” Lur grunts.

“What did I say about staying away from direct combat?” I protest.

Hruothban turns to Braeggvild. “I could have Vyir cast his magic to make us invisible. We could scout their stronghold until we find the dungeon. If the door _is_ alarmed—”

“Od and Ilofn may be badly injured by the time we reach them,” I say. “We need to find a straight route, now.”

“Any idea where we are in these creatures' household?” Hruothban asks Braeggvild.

Our tracker has no idea. None of them have any idea. _I_ haven't any idea. The Chitauri don't build in systematic boxes, the way we Aesir do. They tunnel deep into solid rock and hollow out caverns for storage, housing, barracks, dungeons, and whatever else they need. The result is a scrambled maze filled with disjointed pockets. Good luck navigating that, even without the labyrinth's sadistic inhabitants. The dungeon could be eight hundred meters left, or three meters down, or back the way we came but at the bottom of a vertical drop.

“I think this is as close as we're going to get,” Hruothban relents. He aims a cocky smirk at Braeggvild and Lur, who spread out in anticipation for a fight. “On three, we fire into the doors. Stand offtarget just in case anything hostile comes through. Keep firing until I give the clear.”

“We can't fight them,” I say.

“We have no other choice.”

That's not true. We have one other choice.

“Here,” I say, “give me a rifle.” The trick is to reach for one anyway, as if you have every right. Lur passes me his before I can yank it from his arms.

“Are you an artillery expert, Thrall?” he suggests.

I give him a big, innocent smile. “Hah. I wish. No, I'm going to re-spell it like Ilda did so we can send off a seismic shock, vaporizing slime and doors in the process. That way you can save the charges on the other two. We'll need all the firepower we can get trying to reach that dungeon. Hruothban, when I'm finished making this an explosive you can do the honors.”

They wait in terse anticipation for me to finish getting my dirty magic all over their pretty bang-toy.

“It's times like this,” Lur says, with his eyes on the industrial doors, “I think maybe I wouldn't mind having a mage as a fellow combatant.”

“Oh, truly?” I check the rifle's power setting.

“Not all the time, mind you—not in place of honest fighting, but--”

No one is facing me.

I point the muzzle at Hruothban's head.

Hruothban says, “Have you ever been in combat, Vyir?”

“Many times.” I pull the trigger. The rifle hums in my arms. The flash is uncomfortably bright. There is a smell like burned wires.

Braeggvild and Lur go next, one after the other, while they're trying to figure out what happened.

I spin around and fire up into the waste chute, so the alarms will sound.

Then I have to sniff the ends of my fingers, because that burned smell is a little concerning.

I take Hruothban and Braeggvild's rifles for safekeeping, pat them down so I can recover my throwing knives, step back a good two meters—staying clear from the starchy mass and the parasites, because those damn things really do pack a jolt—and recast an invisibility spell upon myself.

The Chitauri will be here soon. The Chitauri, the reptilian stink, the curious eyes. All I have to do is wait. Wait, be silent, don't freeze.

Now we can find out where the dungeon is.

 


	8. Interlude: A Lesson on Perspective

There was a time when I wanted to be Bor Burison. I tied a red throw rug around my neck and stuffed a make-believe sword through my belt every morning before our governess could get me to come down for breakfast. Bor was the wisest, most ferocious, most praiseworthy Asgardian _ever_. When I grew up, I wanted to just like him. He was, everybody said, the greatest hero who ever lived. My father's father.

I practiced my victory pose and pranced up and down the hall swirling my red rug cape. I strutted to my lessons because in my head this is what Bor Burison would do, swung my sword at the servants, and developed a morbid interest in Father's hearth. Mother wove me a remarkably patient story about how the large vicious-looking plants in her garden were actually Bor's staunchest allies. Allies, she insisted, are not to be attacked. Father took to calling me Bor even though I hadn't asked him to, which was nice—and which lasted just up until I tried to command Odin Borson and then I was Loki Odinson instead.

Glass orbs, bread loaves, and round-ish knicknacks were all unsafe if they were in grasping range. Head-sized things had to be held aloft so that I could display my conquest to proper loving applause. The barbaric Nine Realms had to be put to heel. Rebellions had to be conquered in glorious war. I made an irritating mess of myself with Mother's red skin paints for blood.

My bedroom in the nursery’s dual suite had a life-size model Eldjotun in it by the toy chest, with plastine black armor and an enchanted fiery beard. This model was very good for striking with my toy sword. Thor had to be kept out of my room by our governesses because nobody could get him to stop kicking the Eldjotun, which made me mad. Not because he was kicking my model—I'd have been only too happy making him a war leader in my army if he thought to use a sword instead of his foot—but because an angry round brother kicking my Fire Giant destroyed the illusion. Illusion was very important. Faux-realism was very important. One kills an enemy by attacking him with a proper weapon, not sulking up to him and lobbing a boot at his shin.

Thor didn't care about playing pretend. By age seven I towered over him, could outpace him in combat class, could out-run and out-jump-and out-do him in the field and the scholarly arts as well. While I converted my room into an alter to Bor Burison he tortured the servants and yelled at everybody. I grew like a prized weed: straight up. His growth seemed to be building at the roots without putting out any stem at all; his future mass piled on as excess weight and this earned him the ire of our fighting masters.

“Thor will grow,” sighed Mother.

“Thor will grow,” soothed Father.

Here is our picture that summer: One son going through a Bor phase and one son who “will grow”.

When Father took us to visit Alfheim I wheedled Mother into letting me bring my Bor costume. Father took me aside and, on bended knee so he could look me in the eye, told me that I could be Bor in my room but not at the dinner table. The people of Alfheim wanted to see Prince Loki, he explained, not Bor.

The people of Alfheim must be idiots, I thought.

So the red rug cape came off and the sword lay in glorious repose on my pillow, frozen in a dream until the moment we could play together again. By that time the cape's knot had pulled into a shrunken fist harder than habrium and Thor had taken my sword against our table at home one afternoon, so the blade had more nicks than edge, but these two objects I loved more than anything else in the cosmos. I don't think Thor loved anything. If he did, he kept it close to his heart where nobody could take it.

Alfheim didn't love anything, either. Our governesses kept Thor and I in sight at all time, where 'adventure' in adult-speak translated to 'let's go and see what the citadel park looks like without getting up from the park bench'. I _knew_ what the park would look like: the back of three or four royal guards. That's what _everything_ on Alfheim looked like.

My short, angry, round brother became my one ally in this. Thor threw our packed lunch on the floor when he found out we were going back to the park, causing Asgardian meats to splatter spectacularly across dainty elven pearlstone. He stamped upstairs to his room with me on his heels, slammed the door so he could open and slam it again, and stuffed himself under his bed.

“Want to play conquest in the tower?” I said, not knowing what else to say after this embarrassing, cathartic display.

“No!”

“Want to watch _Sigurd and the Birds_?”

He made an angry, guttural noise.

We sulked together for most of a fortnight before someone—possibly Svaldir, who as the Chief Councilor for Interrealm Affairs, must have considered this a prime situation for fostering interrealm _affairs_ —arranged that Thor and I should attend a chant with the Queen of Alfheim's daughters.

Smirna and Polini were a couple of years older than Thor, both bright-eyed and forever implacably dressed in glittering gossamer robes. They spent the whole chant tormenting my brother until Thor got so angry that he pushed them down. Our next playdate went better; both my brother and the Queen's daughters had been suitably punished between times and said not a word to the opposite side. Smirna and Polini attached themselves to me instead—in five minutes, I had two personal attendants who liked fetching me sweet drinks and toys. I couldn't understand it. They adopted me as a new friend, earning me the hatred of their own younger brother, and together we talked about books and sat in the shade of a hollow oak tree. This was very nice.

Smirna liked mind-games; she would have Polini and I speechless with agonized concentration, trying to work out answers to riddles I'd never heard before. Polini liked dress-up play; together the three of us made the Children's Court and presided over our peers' conflicts. They showed me pretty gems and feathers from strange birds, opal seashells, and wove their treasures in my hair.

My father put a stop to the last when I came back to our tower to show him. Boys aren't supposed to be pretty, he said. He made me take all my friends' gifts back, and accused the Queen of Alfheim of “trying to undermine the House of Odin”. I think their mother must have spoken to Smirna and Polini, because the next time I played with them they suggested we play a fighting game instead.

“Girls don't fight,” I said, baffled.

“Oh.” They seemed equally puzzled by my answer, which made me even more confused. How could this be news to them? “Very well. What would you like to do?”

“Play Bor and Conquest!” I told them I would fetch my red cape and sword, and they could be the rebellions, and I would come after them and crush them. Smirna and Polini got very excited about this plan. I charged back to my room and took up my rug cape and my toy sword, which gave me an electric jolt as love will. I raced back to the girls with my heart in the clouds and my feet lighter than air.

Smirna and Polini loved my Bor costume. They giggled over the cape and gave my sword experimental swooshes. One of them—probably Polini—suggested that we get my discarded, angry brother.

“We could all run from Thor,” she said.

“Oh, yes!” cried the other. “He'll make a perfect Bor.”

This hit me in the face like an unearned fist. “ _I'm_ Bor,” I said, stunned.

Smirna laughed. “No, you're nice. Isn't he nice? He's too cute to be awful old Bor.”

“Bor-Thor,” Polini chanted, giggling. “Thor-Bor. Thor the Bor the Bloody. Ha! He's ugly enough to be Bor.”

My face grew hot. Bor, awful? Bor, Ugly? What was _wrong_ with Alfheim? Bor was good! He was the best Asgardian in the Cosmos. How could my friends not love my hero? “ _I'm_ Bor,” I demanded, heartbroken.

Smirna's nose wrinkled. “Why do you want to be the bad guy, anyway? Let's make Thor the bad guy. We can all run from him while he tries to cut off our heads.”

“Yes!” Polini shrieked. She handed my sword back, and I clutched the toy hilt; comforting it, protecting it. “You can be our friend and run with us. You can be an Eldjotun spy.”

“I'm Aesir,” I said, horrified. Aesir are heroes. Bor was a hero. Eldjotnar were evil.

Smirna blinked. “But you're not like other Asgardians, Loki. You're _good_.” Her eyes got very round and her mouth grew tight with passion.

Thor and I spent the rest of the trip in our own tower, angry separately and side by side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly note that I will be going on hiatus for a week. I want to make sure I can incorporate any details about MCU Thanos and his minions from Guardians of the Galaxy. Next chapter will probably be up the second week of August . . . but if I finish early (or it turns out that I don't need to alter my original plans) I will update much sooner.


	9. An Elegant Plan

 

 

When Hruothban and his sword-brothers wake in a sterile, bright Chitauri cell, they find their bonds cut and me standing in the opened cell door waiting to hand them back their weapons. Two dead Chitauri guards lay at my feet. Both guards had been slit from ear to ear. No alarms are sounding. No other Chitauri stand at my heels. I am the obvious picture of _rescue_.

Now. What do you expect my new friends did upon stumbling to their feet?

Hruothban noisily smashes me into the corridor wall, his fingers clawing into my throat while he yells oaths. I am a traitor, a monstrous wretch and coward, the enemy's bedfellow, a liar. Rather than feed into this idiot I tap his hands, and then his face, to get his attention. He beats me across the jaw and resumes strangling me.

“Traitor! Thrall! Shame of your fathers! I will make you wish you were never born.”

The assumption inherit in this threat makes me smirk.

Hruothban lets go half his grip to backhand me, and in that instant I choke out: “We're in the dungeon. _Look_.”

He pauses; one hand raised, the other clenches around my throat.

“Nuh,” I gurgle. “ _Nnn—_ Now we know where the dungeon is. Yes? Do you see it?” Trying to breath is like trying to swallow knives. Black spots wheel before my face. My eyes want to pop. “ . . . And we know where the entrance is. We can rescue our friends and escape without—nng. _Uhhg_. Guh. Under these foolish cowards' noses. We shall make them a laughing jest before As—Asgard.”

His raised hand lowers, but he doesn't let go of my neck.

“Hruothban,” Braeggvild says. The tracker appears as a woozy shadow at his leader's side. “This Elven beggar speaks true. He has slain the guards while we were frozen.”

“We were frozen,” Hruothban says, “because he attacked us.”

“I attacked you to smuggle us into the dungeons,” I growl. I don't try to pry his fingers from my jugular. This is the most important trick in surviving a beating or in staging recovery from trespass: _never_ fight back. Never, never, never. It is important that Hruothban doesn't see me defending myself from him. If I defend myself, I am his enemy.

When Hruothban throws me down, I get up without the usual bared-teeth blustering bravado that passes for negotiation among the Aesir. He scoops up one of my salvaged Chitauri rifles, examines it with a grunt, and signals for Braeggvild and Lur to do the same. “Do not betray us again, Elf-thrall.”

“--or you'll kill me?” I am not surprised. Why is this everybody's solution to my antics? Am I the only creature in Nine Realms with a mind for _elegance_? Elegance! Why should elegance be the sole domain of a . . . malformed, fatherless, homeless, disgraced swine birthed by a monster and reared by tyrant? I suppose I'm just special, that way.

Braeggvild pushes a hard hand into my chest. “Or we'll make you wish we'd killed you.”

The corridor is clear. There are more cells opening from the left and right walls, but none are guarded. After several false starts—silenced by my magic, of course—we find Ilofn and Oddoutril in their own individual hells, one unconscious and the other in a ball that makes me hurt to look at. Hruothban instructs Braeggvild and Lur to take Oddoutril by his arms, help him stand, keep him quiet when he panics. Hruothban and I pick up Ilofn's body.

We meet two Chitauri en route to the surface. Lur blasts one before I can warn him off, and the other bolts.

Oddoutril fights free from his support. He rushes the creature with head bowed low and massive arms spread wide to ensnare. The Chitauri gropes for a weapon, but is smashed into the grimy floor instead by an enraged berserker. Od puts a hammer-like fist through its right eye. The fight is over.

What happens next hardly qualifies as a _fight_. What happens next is immensely entertaining.

And . . . gory.

And . . . lengthy.

Alarms blare overhead.

“Od,” Braeggvild prompts a short while later. “Od. We should go.”

Od says nothing. He gives the Chitauri's scattered remains a final kick and then unzips his trousers to loose a parting stream across the mess spread up the corridor and across one wall.

“We must hurry,” Lur says. “These creatures swarm like the Vindren do.”

If Od hears him, he gives no response.

This is going to get us nowhere fast.

I drop Ilofn's limp legs to join them. “Od,” I murmur. Od is staring at the purple carnage, hypnotized. “Let's go kill some more.”

He doesn't respond to this, either, but he lets Lur and Braeggvild take his shoulders and direct him toward the path leading up. We reach the oozing access tunnel as the walls begin vibrating to life. The hanger, I think. They are coming for us. The screeching alarms rattle my teeth. I can't feel my body.

* * *

We make the bifrost site in a sprint, crashing to a halt in the Pattern's center as the swarm closes in around us Hruothban shouts for Heimdall. I stoop to set Ilofn on the ground so I can clear out—The Chitauri cannot find my invisible bag.

Braeggvild points his plasma rifle in my face. “You are coming with us.”

“I—”

“Move from here and you die.”

Rainbow light explodes around us. When I look up, Heimdall and half of Odin's elite Einherjar are pointing swords at our throats.

“Peace, friends,” Hruothban says. His big happy grin is back.

I'm still shaking.

“This is Oddoutrial,” Braeggvild explains, introducing our warband. “Son and heir to Lord Noin. Hruothban son of Adarr, Lur son of Lur, and I, Braeggvild son of Siggvild, recovered him and the other from our captors. He is Ilofn son of Anja the Sorceress of Vanaheim.”

Hruothban sets Ilofn's upper half on the observatory's shining floor, leaving me to follow suit. Between the swords and the lingering reptilian stink in my clothing and hair, I almost drop his legs. My muscles aren't working right. Hrothban, Braeggvild, and Lur surrender their weapons to the Einherjars' self-worthy feet.

Hruothban adds, with a sharp gesture at my ribs, “This creature is Vyir the Enchanter, a thrall in service to Alfheim.”

“He shot us with an alien weapon,” Lur blurts.

Irritation rears its lovely head above whatever blind, black ooze has replaced my limbs with stone. “That's hardly fair,” I say. “Who was it that got us into the dungeon so we could rescue Lord Noin's heir?”

“You could have warned us,” Hruothban says.

“While you were all 'Huzzah death by battle'?"

“Quiet.” Lord Urdur, the Einherjar leader, signals his men to move out. “You will need your tongues when you make your report before Chieftain Tyr.”

We are escorted from the bifrost by the city's premier guards, whom Hruothban and his friends have forgotten to warn that I am a magic-user. Un-bound, un-silenced, I conjure an Odin-King illusion to meet us before we're halfway across the Bridge.

Odin is looking a little wobbly round the edges. I am running out of magic.

Lord Urdur and our brave escort salutes the illusion—as do Hruothban, Braeggvild, and Lur. Only Od remains standing. Od looms with his arms locked at his sides and his dull eyes vacant. I make the Allfather spare not a glance at the rescue before nodding in my direction.

“Chieftain Urdur,” it says.

“Your Majesty.”

“This one is known to me. You will release him into my custody. I must speak with him in private about our treaty with the Elves.”

Urdur salutes a second time. My legs still aren't working right, but Odin-King and I walk away to find a nice private hiding spot in the city. In a hollow between a tannery and a smithy, I banish the illusion and recast an Odin-mask upon myself just to be safe.

I'm shaking again.

Another invisibility spell and I am set to return—no thanks to that paranoid fool. My insides feel like a wrung-out towel. Going back to Vorsgard makes me want to dig my eyes out. I should rest before risking another teleportation.

I can't rest.

I don't have time.

Manic, depthless heat squeezes my chest at the thought of the Chitauri stealing my prizes. The heat explodes into scalding pressure. I would rather _die_ than lose my treasures. I've got nothing left; I'm _damn_ well going to have my reward. I steady my hands, master my reserves, and peel back the gate between worlds.

Vorsgard's clinging mud slicks up my shins, splatters my knees, gushes wet and acrid across my hands. My strength gives out. I slip forward into the muck. Hot sand cooks my nose and throat.

The invisibility spell is a bright spot in my mind, flickering as my reserves stretch to breaking point. I grip the magic over my weakening body as an unspoken plea to the cosmos.

I can't hear the Chitauri chariots.

They were right behind us.

My boots skid out from under me as I try righting myself. Orange mud soaks my nice black and silver biosuit, but I don't dare expend any more magic to help me stand.

I'll need what magic I have left to grab my bag and get back to Asgard.

The Chitauri should still be airborne, not so far from where I've fallen.

I slosh to a nearby outlook, tasting dead planet in the back of my throat. Vorsgard's massive white star burns my twitching neck and hands above the cooling orange paste. The Chitauri won't be able to see me and can't scan me, but my right hand is spasming as if I'm already hooked up to an electrode. My chest hurts. I'm breathing too fast. When I reach the edge a cold rush pins me motionless. The brown sky is shot with distant smoke, but there are no chariots. No swarm.

The Chitauri are gone.

I don't understand. They _were_ closing in on us. They were a dozen kilometers out but coming fast—

From the overlook's slimy edge I see fried skeleton cities and barren landscape. No shadows dart between the ruins, or over congealed mud.

Vorsgard is empty.

I am alone.

Where did the Chitauri go, in five minutes?

The sandbanks in my mind itch, soaking me with nebulous doubt. The tide shifts. Am I mad? Did I imagine them? Did I imagine everything?

Could I have just arrived to Vorsgard for the first time? Have I not yet found the outpost?

I push those thoughts aside.

The ruins swallow me again without a sound. Old buildings cloak the sky in shrunken metal teeth. I trace my remembered path to the wall where I've buried my possessions, ignoring the prickly wave of panic that sniffs up my spine. When I slink around a blackened gate at the foot of an ex-palisade, the cluttered ground opens in a deadly, welcoming alley. My bag is at the alley's far end.

I head for the entrance and jolt motionless, eyes wide. Cold sweeps up my arms.

A cloaked figure is standing at the alley's narrow mouth, facing inward.

Scrambling behind the gate I press my back to the porous stone, twitchy right hand clamped over my mouth, and peer through the pylons at the alley.

The figure is real—I'm sure he's real. Look, he's not a shadow. But who—what—is this? Does he sense the death ward mere centimeters farther ahead?

The cloaked figure turns. I sink farther into the dirty shadows under the gate. The intruder's hood rotates in a lazy arc: left, then right. Looking for me.

I crush myself flat to the wall until the stone gouges my back. Bad things happen if I am found.

“You hide from me, little creature,” the figure says. My blood freezes. My breath dies. I know that voice.

The Other's chilling stare drifts up the palisade, two meters left from where I'm crouched with my fist in my mouth. “Come forth. You could be of use, with your magics. Have I found your nest?”

Agonized need pushes up my throat. I am Compelled to answer, and bite my tongue to keep myself silent. If I speak, I am lost.

The Other bares its sharp teeth in a ghoulish smile. “I smell power and illusion. What are you hiding away in here? Trinkets? Treasure? Gold and Jotnar magic. You are a friend of the Asgardians, is that so?”

No. Not really. Not at all.

“The Witch of the Void tells me you tried to trick my Chitauri,” it says. Pain splits my lower jaw. The Compulsion drives my mouth open. I grip my throat in a fist and _squeeze_. “You wanted to rescue two Asgardians from them. So very loyal.” The Other waits for my reply. When I do not speak, it tilts its head as if listening to a distant sound. I can see greasy white flesh behind a golden veil—the Other's neck and throat are runny scars. My pulse batters my teeth. I bear down on my tongue until blood fills my mouth.

The Other says, “The Witch of the Void tells me you are hiding under that rusting gate.”

My heart stops.

The Other looks right at me.

Real real _real_.

It draws a scarred hand up, palm outward; a gesture to sooth a spooked animal. “You should not fear me, little creature. I can offer you much more than your Asgardian friends. They have left you bones to eat on this world, but I will give you a a home, a purpose, riches, whatever it is a thing such as you desires. Build a new nest in service to a far greater power.” The Other releases its Compulsion spell. I cover my mouth with both hands, preventing any perverse residual itch that would give away my location.

“War is coming.” The Other's ghoulish runny mouth warps into a grotesque smile. “You may tell your Asgardian friends this. I will leave you now to consider my offer. I must join my master in speaking with another in our service, who will be rewarded. What _he_ desires is holy war . . . and we will give it to him.”

When the Chitauri's master fades into the red shadows then—only then—do I gasp for breath. My insides are jelly. My hands are coated in wet, cooling spittle. I've gnawed my fingers bloody.

 _You think you know pain?_ The last time we spoke. My soul projected into the shattered asteroid belt where the Hive lived for a time. The Other, ethereal against a spangling of midnight stars. It called me, and I came.

You don't have the Tesseract yet, I said.

 _Do not fail us._ _There will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where he can not find you_. _He will make you long for something as sweet as pain_.

I wipe snot and tears from my cheeks. Pathetic whining noises fill my ears. I feel sick from swallowing blood.

I am weak, and therefor unworthy of love.

 _A thing such as you_. _Riches_. _Little creature. War is coming_.

Another grubby swipe and I've mopped my face clean.

Od and Ilofn are good men. Both of them. Good, worthy. Handsome, to their mothers at least. Fine people.

The circling chariots must have given up once the bifrost touched down. They understood they had lost us and returned to prepare their invasion. I don't know if in my captivity I ever told the Other about the bifrost, but—

Never mind that now.

Asgard has been alerted. The War Council will be preparing for attack, securing our perimeter, escorting civilians to safety. Lord Urdur will see that the palace shield is raised well before an enemy fleet is upon us. Asgard will be looking for Odin-King to command them, but in his absence Tyr will step up to take charge. That will be all right. Frigga will—

Frigga will remember me for a coward if I do not return.

I grind my teeth together.

Let me be a coward. Let me be a liar. Let me be hated.

I want to live.

 _You tried to trick my Chitauri_ , the Other said. You _tried_?

That _is_ what it said. You _tried_ to trick my Chitauri. You wanted to rescue two Asgardians from them.

You _tried_.

 _Tried_ is not a good word.

Fizzing sharp alertness flares hot and green inside my skull, forcing the smothering darkness into retreat. I crawl to my feet. The alley is not so far. I can make it.

Keeping my back straight and tall, I lurch from shadow to shadow into my deathward's sturdy protection. The bag is where I left it: a leather bundle I can only see with my fingertips. _Real_. It's real, too. I loop the strap over a shoulder, and grope through the contents to verify that my things are still here.

Yes.

My fists glues itself to the Casket's handle. Convulsive need for firepower means the accompanying transformation is hardly noticeable this time around. I could have gone for the Gauntlet, I suppose, but I know how the Casket works and an untried weapon is more dangerous than none at all. I crouch in place until the magic's run its course. Another cooling spell, a check that my Allfather mask is intact, and I lope from the rubble back to the city streets.

The Sight rune is useless to a Jotun. I can see heat radiating from the habrium wreckage as a four-dimensional map that gives me no shadows and lingering smudges where the Other conjured its own world-gate.

 _Tried_ to trick. You _tried_.

A black hole opens under my feet. My soul inverts.

_Did they chase us for show?_

If they knew I had planted Hruothban, Lur, and Braeggvild for capture, they would have realized we were planning a dungeon-break. If they knew we were planning a dungeon-break and sent minimal interference, minimal guards—just enough to make the rescue look convincing—just enough to follow us at a distance without stopping us—

I race up the ruined habrium pathways, up the hill to where the bifrost scar . . . draws infrared ghost-patterns three meters high as a surreal Jotnar-only afterimage . . . and collapse in a heap at the nauseating center. Trembling from exertion, I scrabble for enough magic to conjure a third world-gate. My veins surge with acid. Blue sparks crackle up my palms.

 _Blue_?

I can't remember what green is supposed to look like.

The sparks flare, and die. I conjure another spell. Pain cracks from my fingertips. I am tired. The world-gate explodes un-cast, sending concussive shocks through my bones.

“Heimdall! _Heimdall_!” I dispel my invisibility.

The bifrost pounds my eyes with more shimmering heat-colors.

Our guardian appears upon his dais, greatsword shining like starlight. My legs go out from under me. Odin Allfather smacks his knees on the Observatory's astrium-plate floor.

Heimdall does not disgrace His Majesty by offering a hand up or asking after my health; he pretends he does not see me as I haul my sick trembling self upright. My joints are fused together. There is ice spreading across my forehead, never mind the cooling spell. I am gripping the Casket one-handed with the invisible bag twisted behind my back, afraid that if I let go I will die.

Mustn't let go.

“Where—” I sound broken, ragged, used up. “Is the party from Vorsgard?”

“One quarter of an hour ago a second, smaller—” Heimdall starts.

I fly past him to the Observatory stables.

The city gate peels back before I've even reached the Bridge's end. Six guards detach from their watch to flank my arrival.

“Summon Chieftain Tyr,” I command. “A party returned with Lord Noin's son and another valiant warrior.” Valiant is polite-speak for _injured_. “Find them. Now. Bring them in heavy guard to the Royal Hall.”

_Tried to trick. Wanted to rescue._

I seat myself in Odin's throne. Heat makes the whole of Asgard into a nauseating spectral soup. The True Spear, Gungnir, is presented to me by a dutiful attendant. My invisible bag is caught between me and the throne's managull backrest. Nothing but merciless logic makes me remove my hand from the Casket. If an enemy comes at me and Odin-King blasts him with ice, I am slated for execution. Never mind the Chitauri.

Never mind that I look like Odin-King.

I blow out a breath while acid turns me Aesir again. The Hall rights itself in a normal spectrum.

An alarm screeches. The sound hits me like an ax. What have I done?

The Einherjar guardsman on my left glances to me—

Suspicion?

—“The vault!” he says.

Vault. _Vault?_

I surge to my feet. “Go!”

“Your Majesty!” Chieftain Tyr and his war leader, Lord Aumdyn, burst through the engraved golden doors. I'm halfway down the steps with the bag over my shoulder again before they reach my side—and then we're pounding through Odin-King's lovely pristine palace, past frightened silk-clad attendants and oh-so-mighty lords.

_Vault._

Of course.

If they wanted us to escape, they wanted us to reach Asgard.

I am criminal and judge at the same time, racing to the city's defense with Odin's cheer squad keeping pace beside me. We gain the weapons vault with a garrison falling into place behind us. The checkpoint guards scream orders to secure this and lock down that and Tyr screams back at them to _stand the living blood of Buri_ aside.

He, Aumdyn, and I push through into the vault's silent depths.

A red path meets us beyond the gates. Two gold-cloaked guards dead, dragged aside and left lying in a heap. No. _Three_ guards dead. There is another crumpled on his side around a bend just outside the inner chamber.

 _Four_ dead—the last gold-caped guard is smashed across the floor much as Od's Chitauri had been, abandoned in a sickening mirror image with his innards spilled up the wall above him.

I navigate the red maze on silent feet, gripping Gungnir's haft as a lifeline. Smoke and blood fill the passages with an acrid taint that wraps mealy grime over my mouth. I clench my jaw to keep from breathing in.

The Trophy Room is as a charred, broken ruin. Odin's treasures lie crushed into glittering shards, scattered across the stone where the Destroyer has left smoldering craters. The Warlock's Eye, the Orb of Agamotto, are no more. The Tablet is in irreparable pieces. The Eternal Flame is extinguished. The Destroyer itself lays at the vault's far end, hacked apart.

Lord Aumdyn jerks to point at the empty stand. “The Casket!”

“ _Jotunheim_ ,” Tyr snarls. It's a curse. A promise of revenge.

In the room's center are more silent bodies: two Einherjar—and Lur, Braeggvild, and Hruothban. My warrior friend is child-like in death, his brows stricken in pain and confusion. I kneel above him to close his eyes. He is still warm.

Od and Ilofn have vanished.

And with them, the Tesseract.


	10. That's the Way (It Oughtta Be)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to any real bands called "Hello Night". No resemblance is intended.

Two days later I've replenished enough magic to open another world-gate, to Midgard. Although cocktail napkins aren't meant for fine illustration, after some frustrating few minutes I've got the Nine Realms spread out across three tiny white napkins on a table in the back of a Los Angeles nightclub. Asgard and Alfheim are mushed around a wet ring from the waitress's mishandling my Scotch on the rocks, with Midgard crammed under the nightclub's name on napkin number two, and Muspelheim sulking in a corner at napkin number three's most extreme end.

There is no place in any branch on the World Tree where the Chitauri won't go. With the Tesseract in their slimy hands, the cosmos opens to them as a veritable playground. Even Svartalfheim harbors raw minerals, and raw materials are very attractive to a cybernetic race. No matter how long I spend staring at my map I can't find a single realm inhospitable enough to give me shelter. There is no location—at any world—on any branch—where I am not going to be dead inside three months.

Through a window Midgard's single moon is a dirty pink thorn. Remote light fights to be seen through the haze. Los Angeles's valley at night looks like Nithavellir: dark alien vegetation pierced by glowing orange windows and doors.

The waitress sets another Scotch on the rocks at my elbow, and when I give her an inquisitive scowl merely smirks in the opposite direction. A youngish man with greased platinum hair six tables to my left winks at me.

“Oh!” The waitress peers over my shoulder at the napkins, uninvited. She smells of raspberry gum, chemical perfume, and tobacco smoke, and these scents combine with old cleaning products and ale into a mindless haze. “Do you do concept work? My brother-in-law works for Bad Robot. They need more women in the industry, am I right?”

Er.

She puts a hand on my bare shoulder in what I have to assume is her attempt at solidarity and brushes past to complete her rounds. The raspberry cloud follows.

People seem to think they don't need permission to touch me when I am female-shaped.

I finish my first drink as music picks up again, leaving the second for later. The band embarrassing itself in the corner is called _Hello Night_ and its lead guitar, rhythm guitar, and bass are attempting to find a melody by birthing as many unrecognizable chords as possible all at once all at the same volume. Other than that awful racket, the nightclub is dull for an important city and smells new despite the scratched tile floor and ground-in stink. The new-ness might be a trick of my imagination; some time during the last forty years humanity stopped blowing tobacco smoke everywhere and, as this is the smell I have always most associated with humanity, what remains is . . . faded. Stripped to the bone.

Is it too much to hope for that Midgard's rapid mutation slow down every once in a century? As soon as one finds an agreeable pocket to call home, a return visit ruins all sentimental happy memories. Everything one loved is gone, erased, forgotten, never to be seen again. Forty years or forty thousand years—it's all the same on Midgard. Go on. Never bother falling in love. Never bother getting used to anything. Forget it all. It's lost. Don't feel.

What the _hell_ happened to rock and roll?

On my right, the nightclub waitress makes a round refilling water glasses and a shiny-faced, smug asshole in a three-piece suit almost backhands her while pontificating to his grinning colleague. I enchant his nearby glass to look empty.

My second Scotch goes to uneasy stillness. _War is coming_. The Other was right. There is a hole in the cosmos, a soul-less drain through which I can feel mortality calling.

I can survive for a while in the Fringe, on the outskirts of space. Derelict colonies or worlds that aren't part of Yggdrasil, like the ones I haunted in my later hundreds, thrive for staying out of sight. Many such places will remember me for my guises: Vyir,Vauleinn, Aedoa, Jithra, Jithral, Gmaeldjyn, and Hallgrimr, which is not an Aesir name.

Many places will want revenge.

I will need greater caution there than in the Nine Realms. The wealthy mage who came nosing for greater magics—or confiscating, pillaging, and stomping out rivals at the head of the Black Tower Guard—can never be connected with me.

I will need greater caution _everywhere_. Asgard may believe me dead, but once Thanos crushes Asgard they will be the very least of my problems.

My investigators have told Asgard that they were captured by 'Prince Loki's army' and held imprisoned until an Elf-thrall and Hruothban freed them. Tyr shared Hruothban's small-minded suspicions that 'Loki's army' is naturally following Asgardian honor rules and so out to avenge its follow leader by stealing the Tesseract as a trophy. Asgard, being Asgard, has no idea why Od and Ilofn are helping 'Prince Loki's army' unless they are and have always been monstrous traitors worthy of disdain. Asgard is preparing to march against a species who will not follow rules in war.

Someone tricked us. Someone staged an elaborate production to make us think we'd fought our way out of the dungeon on Vorsgard. Someone warned Od to demonstrate a hatred for the Chitauri so we would smuggle him and Ilofn back to Asgard without being suspicious. Someone is being very, very clever.

Asgard doesn't know how to fight against clever.

Worse, Asgard has no idea how Od and Ilofn got into the weapons vault, nor how they slipped the Tesseract from the city and this, more than every mistake Asgard's going to make engaging the Chitauri, will seal the city's fate. From the moment Tyr, Lord Aumdyn, and I found the four vault guards dead in the heart of an otherwise untouched compound, I knew how it happened. I recognized the scene. Vault guards dead inside an unbesieged compound? People appearing from thin air where they shouldn't be? Od and Illofn were not acting alone. The Chitauri have an Asgardian sorceress on their side.

A sour taste fills my mouth. Illness sinks through my chest, rotting my stomach, hollowing my legs. I set down my drink and try to push the illness away. The flashing neon nightclub feels like a sham: surreal. A foolish mistake. A lie.

Smug Asshole lets out a yell. The waitress gushes apologies. The glass still looks empty, so, after cursing her and mopping his suit, he tries to fill it up himself.

The second wave of yelling begins.

“I'm sure you hear this a lot,” says a man's voice on my left, “but you have an amazing smile.”

Scotch-giver of the platinum hair has appeared by my table, almost silhouetted by the neon lights. I didn't hear him approach over the yells and the catastrophe pretending to be music. He is in his fourth decade—well into adulthood by mortal standards—with striped black and white trousers, a metal barb in his nose, and a pirate smile.

“Deranged,” I say. “Nobody uses the word 'amazing'.”

“I like deranged. Mind if I sit?” Pirate hooks a finger at the empty chair across from me. He waves at my napkins. “Tell me that's not a love letter to your boyfriend?”

Somewhere, the Other is preparing a gate to transport the Tesseract to the Void between realms.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain_.

If I go crawling back . . . if I beg forgiveness . . .

“What would you do,” I say, “if you knew the Universe was coming to an end?”

Pirate's cocky smirk dissolves as if I've put a knife in his ribs.

That's new. “What? I am not threatening to—”

“You don't joke like that anymore.” He stuffs a hand in his pocket, looking around as if we're going to be overheard by someone terrible. “You know? I guess you don't do it. Not after New York. You might be one of SHIELD—ex-SHIELD now, I guess. Hell. I dunno. You might be fucking serious.” He lurches a grin.

Ah. “I'm not with SHIELD. Don't worry.”

He looks down at my map. “What's this?”

“I do concept work,” I regurgitate. “For the bad robot.”

And now he's wide-eyed with delight, showing off straight white teeth, almost laughing. “Are you serious? You must have won the lottery to get in there. I've heard that after he earned all those Oscars turning Star Trek into a way to fight back against alien invasion you have to save somebody's kid to get your resume considered. Are you—are you serious?”

“Yes I am. Very serious.”

He's irritating, like a needy pet, but he's a needy pet with an infectious laugh. He's not bad looking, either. He's got a well-shaped, lanky body. Broad-shouldered. Big, calloused hands. He looks strong enough to be interesting. For a few hours.

He thrusts out a palm. “I'm Jamie. Let me guess: your name is going to be something surprising . . . a little exotic . . . maybe a bit sexy.” He taps his forehead as if he's trying to summon my name from the Well of Wisdom.

If he does, I'll have to kill him.

“Hmm . . .” Jamie the Pirate does a good job looking strained. The dimple on the right side of his mouth gives him away. “Rachel?”

“No.” Never agree to the first guess.

“No,” he repeats. “Of course not. It'll be . . . Ariana?”

“Nope.”

Smug Asshole and his colleague have the brilliant idea to stick a hand in the empty-looking glass, to make sure there's nothing blocking the top. While they're making geysers, I cast a silencing hex on _Hello Night_ 's mutilated speakers. There. Fixed it for them.

“Daphne?”

“Nuh-uh.”

We settle on Madeline. Madeline is my name.

Afterwards, we settle for a wall inside the men's room.

* * *

Much later that evening, once I've bought a hotel room from an attendant who let me pay cash, I dispel the illusion that makes my dress look like West Midgardian women's attire. The sickened pressure in my chest hasn't gone away.

Frigga is still on Asgard. Frigga will stay on Asgard until the end days come.

Frigga will think me a coward.

What does it matter?

Asgard will fight. That is what Asgard does. Vanaheim will fight, because Vanaheim is Asgard's bedfellow. Alfheim may fight. But of the others . . . Muspelheim and Jotunheim, Niflheim, and Nithavellir, may well see the tide turning and abandon ship for the winning team. They will take _my_ place as lieutenant, damn them.

It took all nine realms working together last time to trap Thanos in the Void. This time, we're starting the board with one fewer players. This time, half the pieces want to see Asgard dead and could accept Thanos as High King in exchange for a little revenge. Asgard will face a war on two fronts: Thanos, the Other and his Chitauri; Jotunheim, Muspelheim, Niflheim, Nithavellir—and possibly Alfheim, if Alfheim smells death on the wind and turns tail. As for Midgard—heh. Midgard hardly counts. They'll wish they had my protection when I was Thanos's left hand. They'll regret putting up a fight. I would have been a benevolent god. The Chitauri, Jotnar, and Eldjotnar will bear no such good will.

That's a shame. I've always had a soft spot for Midgard.

It would take the master of all negotiations to wrangle a treaty between Yggdrasil's branches now, and unfortunately what we've got is Military Adviser Tyr helming a race of Thors.

Balmy night air sweeps across my skin, but even naked I can't tear off the crawling vileness that covers me head to foot. I am fetid inside in a way I can't scour clean. Somewhere between my innards and my false Aesir skin is an unworthy layer: slime from Vorsgard's orange mud, the sapping mildew of the Void, the unforgivable disease of being alive.

Frigga held my hands because I'd asked her to.

Frigga deserves to be alive far more than I do.

Asgard will fall soon after Thanos rises, and the woman who let me call her mother will die.

We _need_ Nine Realms. What we've got are two, possibly three. We _need_ a master negotiator, on par with the damn myths of old.

What we've got is a liar.

A liar, who knows how the enemy works.

 


	11. Silvertongue

 

“Your Majesty?” I use this address because _your majesty_ is less pathetic than _Mother_ , even alone in her private study. I need all the less-pathetic I can get, turning up like an eleventh-hour hero three days after I supposedly skulked off to live under a rock.

Frigga looks up. She rises from behind her desk with an imperious sweep of her skirts, although she is drawn; pale—almost visibly shaking. Unmasked, she advances on me while thunderous pink spots stain her cheeks an ugly blood red. “Tell me now,” the Queen demands, “Did you steal the Casket for Jotunheim?”

My tongue turns to lead.

“Did you?” She reaches out to grab me. I stumble sideways, out of reach. “Loki?”

My name is a curse.

The peace we reclaimed, however brief, is shattered. “No,” I say.

“Tell it true. Did you steal the Casket?”

“No!”

Frigga snatches my collar and drags me down to look me in the eye. “For feeding you. For making you my son. For making you Prince of Asgard. Tell me if you—” her voice quavers. She alters the question. “Tell me that you didn't take anything from the vault.”

“How _dare_ you think me an agent of Jotunheim.” I want to go back to Midgard. Make this not be happening.

“Swear,” Frigga says, “that you didn't take anything from my husband's trophy room.”

“I swear it.”

She grabs my wrists. Her fingernails bite into my skin. Almost nose-to-nose, she peers into my face as if she will find the Casket locked inside my hateful skull.

“Lord Aumdyn told me that your army has found Vorsgard.” Frigga lowers her voice to a harsh, breathy whisper. “Your army took Odin's force captive. Two men turned traitor for _your name_ and stole weapons—”

“I had nothing to do with it. _I_ sent the force to Vorsgard because we lost contact with our outpost. They took me captive as well, and would have killed me if I hadn't escaped.”

“Am I to believe this?”

I grind my teeth together. I can survive being hated, even by Frigga, but to be hated for such an illogical crime is more than I can stand. “Why in _vastest reach of Helheim_ would I send emissaries to be captured and then released just to steal weapons when I could sneak off to the vault any time I want?” I slam an Odin-Mask over myself, and leer, “Don't mind me. I'm just going to be taking my own things.” I swap the Mask for an illusion that I'm Thor. I plant my fists on my hipbones and throw out my now not-so-weedy chest. “Ah! Noble guardsman. You must stand aside that I can borrow this shiny magic-thing here. My evil brother, Loki, is doing horrible deeds again and I must use this weapon to stop—”

“Stop this childishness.” Frigga cups my face in her hands. “What of your army?”

“It's not _my_ army,” I hiss. “They belong to a being called the Other. That's why I came back.”

Frigga releases me. I rub my jaw with a shaking hand. She heads for her desk and I can't tell from her halting, stiff-armed walk if she's going to summon the guards or not. If she tries to have me arrested—

If she tries to have me arrested I will run.

If I run, there is no coming back.

The Queen tugs a hand cloth from her desk drawer and reaches up to dab her nose. She doesn't call the guards. Bit by bit her shoulders straighten instead, and she stands taller. Her breathing hitches—evens out. Her hand lowers. With her back to me she says, “Tell me what you were doing on Vorsgard.”

I comply. From start to finish. I leave out no details—except for the part where I wanted to aid the supposed colonists against Asgard, because having her know that won't help my cause. When I explain about shooting Hruothban so we could find the dungeons Frigga turns around eyes narrow, but she listens to my story about rescuing the last two prisoners, how Ilofn spent the whole trip back limp as a corpse and how Od dismembered a Chitauri. She is silent while I admit that it never occurred to me that either could be in league with our captors—or, since the Chitauri's master possesses weapons for mind control, that they might be Chitauri puppets. Being chased by the swarm put those thoughts from my head.

“This enemy,” I finish some ten minutes later, “is a brilliant strategist. That was a very well-executed ploy. I don't think I could have come up with anything better.”

“It disturbs me that you sound so fond.” I can't tell she believes what I've said or not. I am seated on her divan and she is standing over me without expression. She still hasn't called the guards, so this is a mark in my favor. “Who is he?”

“I don't know.” Not Thanos or the Other. They are working with someone or someones unfamiliar to me, but I have no idea who— _The spy_. “There's something more,” I add. “I don't dare say it aloud.”

I help myself to the contents of her desk, and dig through the unlocked drawers until I find a clean-ish paper sheet and a stylus. I write a brief message and hold my paper where she can read:

_Someone opened a world-gate between two points on Asgard. That is how the party from Vorsgard appeared in the weapons vault and exited without being noticed. The magician who did this knew where to find the vault, which means that the magician who did this is a high-ranking dweller of Asgard_.

Frigga drags in a short, ragged breath.

I tear the paper into bits while staring her in the eye, and dispose of my note in the only way one can hope to hide a message from a rival sorcerer—sorceress, more like, if just for the sheer numbers game—by eating it

Frigga says, “Do you think someone is listening to us?”

Her rage has vanished into cold, cruel pragmatism.

“Possibly. If someone is, they already know I'm here.

She gazes at me without blinking. I can't read the emotions in her dark, glassy eyes; too many flicker behind her mask. There is fear, but from me or from what I've said? And anger—at me? Not at me? And grief.

_Did you steal the Casket for Jotunheim?_

At least now I know how she really feels. I want to scream.

I wet my parched lips with my tongue. My teeth are so dry my mouth tries to invert. “I told you—the last time I was here—that . . . I'm not really the monster you need worry about.”

Whatever she is considering, Frigga seems to reach a decision. She draws another anxious breath. She lifts a hand to the the side of my forehead. I flinch, but her touch is not meant to hurt. This is a small concession. She settles back on her heels, puts her cloth away. “What of the enemy from which you are hiding?”

“The same enemy.” I take a moment to compose myself. I never wanted to tell her this part. “When I . . . fell off the Bridge I was lost in deep space. It was the Chitauri who found me. They are a cybernetic race led by a sorcerer who calls itself the Other.”

Her eyebrows raise, but I know she's heard this much already in sketchy explanations from our beloved Thor. The part she hasn't heard is the part that happened next—or at least, the part where I'm telling her an edited version out loud and she's listening to the inflections I'm trying to mask behind a pristine, calm facade.

“Somehow,” I say, making my tone light, “the Chitauri worked out that I am a magician and they told this _Other_. The Other has a master as well, who it seemed was growing quite frustrated with his sorcerer failing to deliver on an important promise. Thinking it had found a solution, the Other made me a bargain: I would be granted release from the Void if in exchange I would steal for them an object of great power. An object that had been lost on a small, backwater realm.”

“Tesseract,” Frigga murmurs.

“I refused.”

She pulls away from me, eyes poisonous. _Liar_.

My heart is so huge and heavy in my throat I am going to strangle on it. “I am son and daughter of Asgard. I do not use the magics the High King's wife taught to me to open a world-gate that would endanger all of my father's empire. _Odin-King's_ empire,” I specify. Her jaw is clenched. “I did not know what the Chitauri might do with this Tesseract, but if they wanted to possess its power above all else I must not let that happen. No matter what they promised, or threat—”

“You think me so blinded by affection that I am going to believe—” Frigga starts.

“You said you wanted to know _why_.” I throw it back in her face. “You said my actions on Midgard made no sense. I'm telling you _why_. Do you think me a power-crazed madman, out to steal a crown that isn't mine?”

Yes, she does. That is exactly what they've always thought, she and Odin.

“If I wanted to be a king,” I hiss, “I could have played politics again on Midgard until the people there _begged_ me to rule in office. I do not _want_ the throne.”

_Liar_. She watches my face, unsmiling.

“Oh, no. _You're_ the liar. See, this was never about me. This was you. You and Odin.” I fight to swallow. “All this time you and the King have been terrified of the viper you let into your house, because no matter how many times I tell you I don't want—”

She reaches for me. I can't endure her petty apologies. She manages to get a few fingers through my illusionary hair before I jerk away.

“ _Say so_ ,” I hiss. “You are horrified by the thought that I might be king in your own son's stead. _I_ told Heimdall to run tattling to Odin-King when Thor led us to Jotunheim. If I wanted Thor dead all I would have needed do is keep my mouth shut, cast a blanket over our movements so Heimdall couldn't see, let Laufey's warriors slay them, and teleport back to Asgard in tears to weep over my beloved brother's oh-so-timely death. The throne would have been mine with no fuss at all. This was never about what I had done—this was _you_. This is why, when Thor started a war with Jotunheim—a war which I _stopped—_ he was banished for a whole few days into the arms of a mortal woman and when _I_ started a war I was sentenced to life in a cell? A stay of execution only because the High King's wife _begged_?”

“Is that—that isn't.” Her chin wrinkles. “Is that really what you think?”

“ _Yes_. But I am not here to play games. I told you—”

“My little son—”

“ _No_.” I recoil from her. “You listen to _me_ now. I told you I refused to fetch the Tesseract and I did—at first. Everything changed when I learned who the Other's master is.”

“Loki.” She sinks to the edge of her divan and pats the cushion at her side. “Come here.”

I can't. If I sit down our peace will be a lie, and I'm tired of living in lies.

I say, “When I found out who the Other's master is, I had to escape. I had to break my vow. I had to get the Tesseract off Midgard. This was more important than anything else. If I refused, sooner or later the Other would find another champion. If not me, than someone who would want what it had to offer in exchange. If not me, we were all going to be in deadly trouble.”

Frigga pats the seat beside her again. “We'll talk about it later.”

“To make my betrayal look convincing I knew I couldn't just agree to steal the Tesseract,” I explain. “Not after refusing already. I had to look like I wanted something from that bargain, as well. You understand? Not my freedom. Something more. I needed to make it a mutual business venture, rather than thrall and master, so that I had a goal invested in the scheme's success. Do you see it? I told them I would give them their Tesseract if in exchange they would help me take all of Midgard for my private kingdom. I told them that Thor, my idiot brother, will inherit Odin's empire.”

“Please, Loki.”

“I would be left with nothing. I would be councilor to a king who will ignore every word of advice I give him. Thor would never listen to me, you know he wouldn't. He's been ignoring my suggestions since we were children. This is what my life would be: whispering good advice into a bad king's ear only to get laughed at and pushed aside. Unless I am very lucky, of course, and he chooses to openly disgrace me by _not_ selecting his own brother as advisor to the throne. But on Midgard I would be king in my own right. No—better. I would be a _god_.”

Frigga shakes her head. “Your father—”

“--would never allow me to do that. I _know_. That was the whole point. _I_ agree to steal the Tesseract from Midgard in exchange for Midgard itself. Isn't it brilliant? A very elegant solution. Whoever designed the trap on Vorsgard isn't the Other; I know this because the Other agreed to my insipid plan to conquer Midgard. All I had to do was show up on Midgard, steal that damn blue cube, cause the largest scariest shitstorm I could, and sit back to wait while reinforcements flew in to stop me. Not only would I win myself a free ticket back to Asgard, but I would get the Tesseract out of the Other's reach for good _and_ warn Midgard in the process that there are dangers out here with an interest in their realm. Consider me a false alarm for what is coming next.”

Understanding drains all the color from her cheeks. Frigga is still as death.

“I _know_ Midgard,” I tell her. “If I'd really wanted to be King of the Mortals, all I would have had to do is show up in a white robe and start preaching miracles. I could have made myself a messiah. I could have chosen any one of their holy books; fulfilled whatever prophecies were requisite to be hailed as the Coming—or Second Coming—of their Savior. The humans thought Thor and I were gods a millennium ago, they would think me a god now as well. I could make an illusion of myself descending from the sky. My supporters would have reached critical mass within a week. More elegant, don't you think?”

She says nothing.

“Besides, when has rampant melee carnage ever been my choice method for getting what I want? Beating people with a blunt object until they obey is _Thor's_ way of doing things. Please, Your Majesty. Loki _Silvertongue_ , you know. I had hoped our noble High King would ask after my reasoning when I was returned home, but clearly it was enough that Laufey's son tried to take Midgard with an army and the son of Odin stopped him. The past is playing out again. What else did the Allfather need to know? That must have put you both at ease—how many centuries have you spent waiting for the second ax to fall? For Laufey's son to fulfill his father's destiny?”

“Do not say such things,” Frigga says. “That isn't true.”

“Oh? Oh, no? _Liar_.” Black euphoria wrenches my face into a grin I don't feel. “You can imagine how he looked when I told him all this on Svartalfheim. He hardly stopped to threaten me with impaling before he scurried off to verify my story. And he _did_ verify my story, if he hasn't returned yet.”

My smile collapses.

“He _hasn't_ returned yet, has he?” I blink, refocusing on her. Frigga is silent. “Only I suspect you would have started our happy chat by shushing me rather than yelling at me, if the man who made me call him Father was listening in the next room. I was supposed to be gone by now, you know. I don't think he'd be very happy to know I'm still lurking around his empire.”

Frigga abandons her efforts to entice me onto the seat beside her, and laces her fingers in her lap instead. Her face is placid.

No. Odin Allfather has not returned yet.

She changes the subject by murmuring, “All of those people.” From the way her eyes are growing distant, I don't think her words were meant for me to hear. _All of those mortals who died defending the Tesseract_.

I cross my arms. “A fraction of the cost if I had slipped away unchallenged. You know I'm right. You do see it, don't you?” I feel hollow, grainy, filled with sand. “I rigged the game to lose,” I confide. “This is my greatest weapon. Sabotaging myself works when I have no other options left. I've never yet come across an enemy able to see through the ruse; everyone's so happy to defeat Loki they never stop to think about it. This gives me an unstoppable advantage.”

Frigga's brows pinch upward in a brief, suppressed expression of grief.

I hate her grief.

I shrug one-armed so she knows that this isn't another attempt at baiting an argument.

The Queen takes some time straightening back into regal nonchalance. She smoothes her skirts with a gentle, distracted air. When she addresses me again her tone is weirdly warm:

“Will you tell me who is it was that convinced you to escape? You said that this Other Sorcerer has a master who wanted the Tesseract?”

I mask a shiver. “Yes, and as soon as the Other figures out how to get the Tesseract off Vorsgard he will have it. Mother—I didn't stop to look, and will have to check the Library, but we need to know in what condition are Vorsgard's old bifrosts. If the Other manages to free its master from the curse that keeps him locked safely between realms we are going to die. The Chitauri came through during the Convergence, but this now must be their plan: build or repair a launchpad and get the Tesseract to him. Use the Tesseract's power to lift his curse.”

“What curse?” Her voice is soft and quiet, meant for a child. This saccharine coddling is worse than being yelled at.

“The _curse_ ,” I say. “The one it took all Nine Realms working together to wield. The only way we defeated him before.”

Frigga is quiet.

I wait for her to say something—anything.

She whispers, “Thanos?”

Hairs raise on the back of my neck. I answer with silence, in return.

Frigga begins pacing. She squeezes her hands together. “You must go before Tyr. You must tell him all that you have said to me. If this is true—”

“This is true. This is why Odin is gone.” I am not, ever, going to bow before Chieftain Tyr and beg his mercy for my crimes. I've had enough of Asgardian justice for one lifetime.

“Thank you for telling me this, Loki.” Frigga walks to her window, unties the curtain, peers out into blue morning as if expecting to see Thanos marching on the palace gates. She's always taken shelter in the natural world—windows, gardens, finding flowers growing from a chink in habrium.

I return to her side. “Your Majesty, you said before that I have a grasp on political current even if certain . . . other qualities . . . of mine are lackluster.” _Honor_. “This is not even a matter for politics so much as simple mathematics: it took nine realms to defeat him last time. Today, Svartalfheim and Jotunheim are dead wastes, Muspelheim and the mist-world, Niflheim, are our enemies so much as the Jotnar were. Nithavellir and Alfheim cannot be trusted with three realms of seven likely to back an enemy of ours; if either one throws in the sword for Thanos the other will scramble for a place in his army. Midgard, as you know, is practically useless in a—”

“They defeated the Chitauri,” she says.

“A fluke. A technicality,” I sneer.

Frigga glances my way. “Wars are often won on technicality, my love.”

Good point. “Five from Midgard,” I amend, “besides Vanaheim and Asgard. This is the army we've got to work with: Two realms and a mortal warband against three realms backed by Thanos, the Chitauri, and—” I indicate the surrounding walls. _And we have a spy in our midst_. “Leaving two realms undecided. This could fast become a hopeless fight. And worse? Asgard's mightiest warriors will be powerless to win the other realms to our side. Alfheim is not impressed by strength. Nithaveller is proud to a fault. We need someone who is very good at talking.”

She's knows what I'm going to suggest.

Frigga's expression is unreadable again. “What did Odin say to this?”

I slump against the wall. “He said practically the same thing he would have said about Vorsgard: None would dare side against us! That isn't a _plan_ , Mother. That's the refusal to _make_ a plan.”

“Loki.” She sounds too hesitant, too careful. “Councilor Svaldir told me about the colony. Odin would have sent an army to find any such rebellion and crush them on their own soil. Many Chitauri would have been slain at no risk to our city.”

Damn.

Frigga says, “When you took judgement into your own hands you sent no army and instead returned with traitors to Asgard. I know—I want to believe—that wasn't intentional. But . . . now the Tesseract is stolen from our protection and our enemies have slipped away unscathed.”

“And if your husband had tried _my_ approach more often in the past,” I say, “perhaps we would not be two realms against five in an intergalactic civil war. Anyway, you're forgetting that the Chitauri possess weapons for mind control. A thousand Asgardian warriors running around Vorsgard's tunnels would have made for even more traitors back in our sparkly city. Rather than losing the Tesseract to two misguided creatures, we might have suffered a royal coup on the blades of a hundred. No, a warded legion is the only way to fight such weapons and we did not know we needed a warded legion until now.”

I hold up my hands in a gesture for peace. “Here is what I am suggesting—and please, hear me out. While it might be more . . . streamlined . . . to turn me over to Chief Councilor Tyr to be re-imprisoned and subjected to a full interrogation, you also know that my loyalty to this city is beyond question, if only because Thanos wants me tortured to death for betraying his mission to steal the Tesseract from Midgard.”

Her mouth squeezes to a small pained line.

Whoops. I guess I didn't tell her that part. “This is why Odin-King allowed me to falsify my death,” I explain. “Don't imagine that he had any cuddly altruistic reasons; he knows well as I do that as a former Prince of Asgard I possess many secrets that would endanger our city if they were ever pried from me.” I quirk an apologetic smile. “Anyway, that doesn't matter. As it stands, we have two realms and a small mortal warband on our side. We _need_ indestructible treaties with Alfheim and Nithavellir. The first step is to take back the Tesseract, and to do that we must launch a planet-wide invasion. Asgard doesn't possess enough warriors to mount such a thing, and even with Vanaheim beside us the odds of locating the Tesseract before the Chitauri use it are slim to none. I am well-acquainted with Alfheim; give me the chance to fortify our relations with the Elves, at least. I can recruit them to aid us in this endeavor.”

Frigga is still listening.

I take a deep breath. Here goes everything. “For the moment I am in a unique position so far as knowing how the Chitauri think. Or rather—don't think. I know the sorcerer who controls them. For so long as Odin Allfather is away, appoint me Councilor Regent in his stead: a position that may be withdrawn at the Queen's command.”

She does not agree, but neither does she outright refuse. Her mouth is clamped shut. Her breathing is slow, but uneven. Her eyes are locked on me.

“The knowledge of my continued existence will be limited to you and I,” I say. “In public, meantime, I will continue masquerading as Odin Allfather—just long enough to build an alliance with Alfheim and Nithavellir and launch a joint invasion. After we recover the Tesseract, I will take my leave from Asgard. Permanently.”

Frigga's chin raises.

My heart does that odd flipping-thing inside my chest. “I wish I could read you. Tell me what you are thinking.”

She doesn't.

“Your Majesty, I _know_ this enemy. Support me in this and I will call a meeting in the Plain of Ida tomorrow morning, as Odin-King. I will tell the whole of Asgard what I have told you. How I—er, Loki—met the Chitauri. That the Tesseract was stolen to free Thanos. That we are on the cusp of total war.”

She shuts her eyes.

I say, “Asgard resists going to others for aid, but once the public knows what is at stake they will support Odin-King's meeting with the Elves and Dwarves.”

Frigga opens her eyes. “How will you convince them that you speak true?” Her voice is distant, cold, removed. Unhappy.

Ah.

I massage some life back into my tired face. This is the part of my plan I have trouble with. See, it isn't enough that Odin-King _says_ we are at war with Thanos. If he cannot back up his claim his title alone will not convince the councils at Gladsheim. Chieftain Tyr will want to pursue the Chitauri as Asgard would otherwise see fit: a drawn-out, personal vendetta playing tag with the Cube.

I sigh. “I will worry about that when the moment comes. _If_ they question me. They might not question me. I am Odin-King, after all. My word is absolute.”

“When you father returns,” Frigga says. She speaks slowly, as if she is pulling each word up from some great depths and weighing them with care. “What will you do then?”

“Flee the city.” I shrug. “Not come back.”

This does not please her. I can see the brittle frown in her eyes even before Frigga says, “You will have to stay.”

I shudder. “Don't make me stand trial. Let me die in peace. I will go from here. I could live out the rest of my life on Midgard. Hey, maybe Thor and I will pass each other at a Disco sometime.”

“You will stay,” the Queen commands. “Or you will go from here now. I will not sweep this under the rug like a criminal. If we do this, we do this with the full force of the Allfather's justice upon our heads. Leave, or stay and stand trial. I will speak on your behalf. That is my choice. This is yours: I will have your solemn oath.”

“A solemn oath.” My lips curl back around my teeth. It's not quite a smile. “From Loki Liesmith?”

She is impassable.

“Alright,” I say. “I swear it. When this is over I will let your husband judge me lacking and only run after he orders me executed.”

Frigga shakes her head the smallest of a centimeter. “Your oath. On Hallormr, Halldór, and Hallveig _.”_

_Bile lurches up my throat._

_Frigga watches to see if I will back down._

“That's a bit petty, isn't it?” I say. “Nine hundred years ago is long time, even for us. I can't decide if you're trying to tease me, or if you think my affection for you is no longer enough to hold my loyalty. Should I be insulted? I think we've come too far to be insulted. Very well. Have it your own way. I swear. On Hallormr, Halldór, and Hallveig _._ ”

The Queen's glass facade melts. My mother comes alive in the tired shadows under her eyes, her reedy smile, the way she uncrosses her legs and looks at the floor.

I am sorry I told her out loud that she and Odin never trusted me. Some truths are better left in the dark. I don't like causing Frigga pain.

My mother glances up. She regards me with an odd, masked smirk. “Is that Eja's dress?”

I look down.

“She's been looking for that dress.” Frigga tugs the pale purple skirt.

“Eja has good taste.” I show her a spin. I haven't been female in a long time. My center of balance is off.

Frigga smiles. “I will buy you your own dress, dearling. You shouldn't take other people's things.”

“Shall I read to you, Mother?”

“Not now.” Frigga takes my right arm. “Where did you get this scar?”

Oh. I had glamored the bullseye mark away on Midgard. Now, Eja's sleeveless dress shows it off: an odd, indented shape more like part of my forearm collapsed around a small pattern rather than a battle wound.

“Was this the Chitauri?” Frigga says.

“No,” I quirk a smile. “When I rescued a ship full of orphans. Orphans bite.”

Frowning, she turns my wrist over. “I have never seen a mark like it before. What weapon made this?”

“Honestly? I can't even remember _when_ I got it.”

 


	12. The Measure of Odin's Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fugue by O. Borson, arranged for quartet by L. du Vide

 

Gladsheim's gold-plate doors open on soundless hinges. I walk into glistening splendor with my heart between my teeth. The two great councils rise from decorated platforms high above me to honor my presence, terrible as sentinels in their scarlet and emerald. Beyond the councils and the nobles' equally decorous gallery, opposite the expansive free archways where the common people may shove each other aside for a view, is the dais with the citadel's infamous Twelve Seats. Odin's chief advisors. The most powerful men and women in the King's service.

Frigga squeezes my left hand. I've stalled at the threshold.

At her prodding, we walk forward into the blistering heat from a thousand thousand eyes.

The councils find their benches without breaking the anxious hush. The nobles smile and nod their heads. Frigga smiles back at them but I seem to have forgotten how. The entire chamber is a buzzing fever dream. The twelve golden braziers lining the hall as immense titans flood Gladsheim with a glittering unreal light. Polished gold walls sparkle with reflections within reflections. The intricate flooring gleams brassy as Frigga and I cross over intertwining knots larger than my suite. The Twelve Seats loom ahead in garish white shadows.

All of Asgard has turned out to hear how Odin-King intends to punish the vault thieves. I am sweating under my illusions. Frigga releases my hand and we part company before the dais. Tyr's mouth pinches a smile as I wade through the oceanic spectacle to stop below Odin-King's illustrious sweeping chair.

To call this chair a throne would be wrong; Gladsheim is as close to Greek Democracy as absolute-divine-monarchistic Asgard ever gets. A court-approved issue is presented by the King or a chief advisor, and the city decides. The king can be out-voted, refused, and, theoretically, even overthrown by Gladsheim.

My insides are a nest of vipers.

As second prince, I had privilege to my own Seat but not to my own division. I could vote on all issues brought before Gladsheim but any I raised had to pass through either Odin or, more usually, through the High Council's Chieftain Forseti.

I have never spoken at Gladsheim before. Now, not only will I have to submit before the entire city in attempt to sway them toward a radical plan, but I will have to do so while in character as the Allfather. Worse, I still have no idea how in Nine Godless Realms I'm supposed to prove anything I say is true.

I see Frigga smiling at me from her place in the noble's gallery. I set my shoulders.

There's nothing left to do but try.

“My Lord and Lady Chieftains,” I begin. “Councils. Citizens of Asgard. Grievous news has come to me of late. I will not waste time with titles. You know who I am—” the crushed-up shaking part of me that is Loki wants to add, _and if not, you've got bigger problems than I can help you with_ — “I have not come before you to grovel or kneel. I am direct descendant of Buri the First God, son of his first son, and in this dark hour I am also

*

—Your most grateful host,” I gush to the Queen of Elves, all honeyed velvet. She extends a fine-boned hand for my kiss. Against the dark sanctuary foliage of Frigga's garden Queen Daina is luminous.

“You win me for surprises.” Her violet-rimmed yellow eyes crinkle at the edges. “I expected the Aesir leader from centuries ago, who blusters and shouts.”

Her party has dispersed, leaving us to talk politics in complete privacy. The elves may not distinguish between politics and pleasure, but they are even more monarchistic than we Aesir. The Elves don't bother with courts. Daina is Alfheim. She and I will talk, and the alliance will be decided.

“That Aesir leader is long gone,” I say, laying on the charm with a smarmy smile that has never and _would_ never belong on Odin's face. “He has no idea what I'm getting up to in his guise. I fear we are no longer so close, he and I. My fair Elven friend, I hope that you permit me to humbly request for your presence at supper tonight. I am

*

—Lord of everything and better than this joke who calls himself a king.”

King Nibelung III of Nithavellir bristles at my introduction. His fellow Dwarves grow still. They are little more than shadows in a golden room stacked with aromatic confections, dark-upon-dark in the midst of so much gleaming culinary treasure.

I add, sweeping an arm to encompass the ready-to-burst Royal Hall, “Eat your fill of this feast and be ashamed, for you cannot match me in wealth or stature.”

“A fine feast it is,” Nibelung III allows with a grudging cough. He considers me from below a bejeweled headdress. “But your tables are all old, and we Dwarves do not like old tables. If we sit down, I am afraid the wood will rot out from under us and we will be covered in this foul swill Odin Asgard King thinks is wine.”

“This isn't going very well, is it?” Odin's attendant Sigg murmurs from my left.

“No,” I say, and clap my hands together. “This is going splendidly. Sigg! Tell the cooks to throw out this garbage and reset the table immediately. Let us show these underbred dwellers of the dark that our cooks are the best in all nine realms, and will have a second feast displayed within the hour to their everlasting shame.”

The Dwarven King shakes his head. Solemn refusal spreads through the party, until each Dwarf looks as if he would rather eat a live jarlslugthan suffer my hospitality

*

—which is necessary for the survival of our realm,” I explain to my audience at Gladsheim. Sweat is pricking behind my ears. I can't move to wipe it off. Nine pairs of eyes stare down at me from the dais. “Loki confessed to me before he died that his treasons were not purely for personal gain,” I recite. “He did not act alone. He claimed to have invaded Midgard at the behest of another, whose forces have now succeeded in that task which my late son failed, and taken a very powerful weapon from our vault here on Asgard. This other's . . . name was told to me, by Loki. I have every confidence that the name is correct. We are now at war with Thanos.”

Disbelief boils from the councils and commons in Gladsheim. Voices raise to cast this declaration aside. It is a mark to my credit that I love my second son Loki, they say, but I should know better than to believe anything ever uttered by that monstrous backstabbing coward.

They are furious.

They don't believe me.

I shut my eyes.

They think this is

*

_“Nonsense,”_ Nibelung III spits. The Dwarven King takes a challenging step backward, toward the palace gates and the bifrost and, farther, Nithavellir. “Wish-you treat with us, Odin One-Eye? Since Asgard is too well incompetent to conduct the simplest meal, how could I trust an oaf such as you for talks? We will feast at Nithavellir instead.” A grave insult.

Sigg flinches. Lord Aumdyn puts a threatening hand on his sword's hilt. I wave him off. My court glances from me to Nibelung, waiting to see how I will take this.

“A Dvergr feast?” I say, laying on the sneer. “You must be joking. Very well, I accept. My court will come with me to Nithavellir that we may eat your realm's wealth in a single sitting.”

“Your Majesty?” Svaldir tries to head off what looks like a budding interrealm war.

He's wrong, of course. Nithavellir and Asgard are already at war. Nibelung's pride will see to that.

*

“War, smwar. Is this all you talk of?” Queen Daina complains over after-supper sweets while I pour us both more drink than we—strictly—need. “I haven't forgotten, you are aware, that our realms were supposed to be joined by now. Do you remember that, Odin-King?” She purrs my name.

No. I don't. I, Loki, wasn't privy to that little morsel of information. So . . . Thor was meant for Smirna? The heirs to two kingdoms, united in unholy matrimony. Ha! What my poor not-brother would think, if he knew. A fiendish smile slips out from under from my Allfather impersonation. I can't help it. “Which of them would be more horrified, do you expect?”

Daina laughs. “Yours. Mine at least found him fetching. I always thought a good compromise would be for both to keep lovers on the side. We Alfr do not shy from eunuchs the way you Aesir do.”

Wine goes down the wrong pipe. I cough. How did Thor and Smirna become _eunuchs_?

Daina brushes her long tapering fingers up my arm. “You still do not approve. But yes, naturally. Why, that there can be no accidents? What, with the lovers, how better to have made sure that Smirna's children actually belong to her husband?”

I set down my drink. I'm shaking with suppressed laughter, and almost spill the wine. “My dear,” I say in Odin's best no-nonsense voice, “If our children require live-in lovers to remain in the same household without killing each other, perhaps marriage is not the best option.”

Daina's bloodless lips curve into a perplexed frown. “Oh, but what would you suggest? Smirna has her lover, who must be a eunuch so that she is not bearing children with him, and your son has _his_ lover, who must be a neuteras well for to ensure that no accidents occur and all children are of your line and mine.”

This . . . negotiation is getting away from me. “You and I are very good friends, aren't we?” I say. “I hoped to join our realms in peace for all time. _Do_ you really think our children hate each other that much?”

The Elven Queen's perfect brow pinches into a sharp _v_. She blinks her yellow eyes as if I have just sprouted antlers. “But—Odin-King? Hate each other? Not at all. I thought . . . But I thought—but you said that Loki did not enjoy intercourse with women?”

*

_“This is not how I envisioned our talk going,”_ I confess to Prince Frey of Vanaheim. His people are already on their feet, cheering.

*

_“You didn't?”_ Nibelung III demands. “Why?”

“Why?” I repeat, feigning outrage. “Because I will not sit down to treat over a spread that does not include fried liben seeds.”

The Dwarven feast hall is already alight with one hundred kinds of cooked meat, one hundred and fifty stews, and enough bread to build a castle. Tables carved from emeralds glitter before chairs hewn from other precious stones: rubies, sapphires; set with gold and onyx inlays.

“I,” I say, “am _leaving_. This is beyond compare! You insult me by failing to set out this simple dish. We _will_ treat at Asgard or not at all. You should bring your entire court this time, that every Dwarven elder, adult, and child may know how poorly your people compare to the splendor of my realm.”

*

_The Elven Queen cackles_. “Do not tell me you Aesir have become shy about mating? The look on your face could—a-hah—turn an army from its march.”

“Not your army, I trust?” I have to steer us back toward war-talks. It's the only way my brain will de-explode.

“I think Loki would have been happy in this marriage,” Dania says, ignoring me. “I think he would have found it suited him. He was a very logical man, your late son. So long as he did not share your squeamishness about eunuchs, and so long as he wasn't opposed to the entire idea.”

I am opposed to this entire conversation.

Queen Daina says, “Is this why you never consummated the idea? You are terrified of the eunuchs, Odin-King? Tell me, please: although this plan will now never come to be, what would you have thought is an acceptable solution? Are our children wed only to be forced to seek pleasure in secret outside of their marriage? Risk your law and their reputations? What is the word you have for this? Adult-ery? Rather than an honest Alfr counter-marriage? Is this the life you will choose for your son? I would not choose this for my daughter.”

“You are tying to unsettle me,” I say.

Daina squeezes my hands in delighted confession.

Odin would surge to his feet and threaten her for daring to think she could prattle on about his late son so coarsely. He would insult her un-Asgardian morals, demand to know whether she meant to change her mind about the binding treaty Alfheim snubbed over a thousand years ago—and that would be the end of my attempt at alliance.

I say, “My dear, I am not unsettled about eunuchs or Elven counter-marriages. I am unsettled and—I dare say— _disappointed_ . . . that you would rather talk about what is past than the future we have together. Your daughter, Smirna, is still unwed.”

“Yes?”

I suppress an evil grin. “I have another son.”

Daina cuddles next to me, entwining her left arm in my right. “A royal wedding? You are so filled with surprises today.”

“Many more than you might think.” I raise my wine glass to her in salute.

“A royal wedding.” She pats my elbow with her free hand. “The people of Asgard will love you for this. _I can just hear all the happy voices now . . .”_

*

_The common people and two Councils are in an uproar_. The Twelve Seats are twisted out of their chairs in debate, shouting over each other with reasons why I am wrong (although not in those words), why my information must be incorrect, why even if Thanos could someday escape his prison between realms he could never summon enough cowards to his side to fill out his ranks.

“Your Majesty,” Chieftain Tyr interjects above the rabble. Gladsheim's deafening cacophony fades to a dull roar. “Even supposing this . . . horrible state of affairs is true—”

“You know me well, old friend,” I growl. Frightened, hostile eyes stare down at me from all sides. “Do you think me a spoiled child or grief-mad over a murdering traitor, that I would come to this place with this tale if I were not absolutely certain?”

Quiet hangs a noose above my head. I wait for the last simmers to die away before tucking my hands behind my back— _damnit_ , no, before dropping my arms habrium-stiff at my sides, fists clenched in a hard pose that says Odin is Angry.

I say—in Odin's voice—, “Thanos is returned. The Chitauri have discovered Vorsgard and it is only a matter of time before they use the Tesseract to break the curse restraining him. Your choice is not whether or not we should believe words sworn to your king by a madman. Your choice is, Shall we kneel to an enemy who has been plotting our defeat for millennia? Thanos sent his minions to Vorsgard during the Convergence knowing that we would have left behind enough technology to unlock his seal. What proof do I have to offer that all I say is true?”

I have no idea.

_He will make you long for something sweet as pain_.

*

_“You are doomed today,”_ the Dwarven King says, when he and his court walk through the double doors into Odin's Great Hall. Towering golden dishes piled high with every conceivable food fill the space in a grand display, set upon gold tables lined with red velvet. Jewel-encrusted goblets, flatware, centerpieces, and enchanted braziers wink from any crevice not overflowing with things to eat and drink. Despite the feast to end all feasts I have laid out for them, King Nibelung III turns up his nose and rocks side to side which is, among Dwarves, a sign for boredom.

Despite their king's forced apathy, Nibelung's court eyes the glittering stacks with pinched, colorless faces.

“I have delights here from every corner of Yggdrasil,” I say, waving an arm to encompass my splendor. “Should you desire Jotnar beer or Eldjotnar cuskalas, Alfr spicemeats or—I dare say—Dvergr scorpion bread.”

“A fine display,” Nibelung admits, although from whimpering hiss at the back of his throat one would think he is being tortured. “But . . .”

“Name your want,” I say. “But what? You would prefer music to accompany this grand meal?”

Relief breaks across his face in a fragile wave—and then ratchets into wary skepticism.

I clap my hands. Alfr songbirds flutter down from ivory perches in an ephemeral blaze of scarlet and silver. The songbirds are accompanied by an orchestral troupe, masked in the shadows behind the high table. Sweet, haunting music fills my hall.

“I despise songbirds,” Nibelung declares, smiling broadly. “All of this . . . feast—” he stumbles over the disgusted inflection he's attempting— “is little more than gilded poison. Your throne is as hollow as you taste in music, you overgrown garbage-ringer. We will have our talks on Nithavellir, or not at all.”

Another Dwarf, dressed in messenger's white, hurries up to catch his king's ear. He's stumbling, shaken from just stepping off the bifrost, but I already know the frantic secret whispered to Nibelung. I feign irritation while the Dwarf King turns the color of rancid fruit.

“Muh—muh— _mm_ ,” Nibelung stammers. He spins round to gape wild-eyed at me, and then at his messenger.

“Yes?” I demand. “What is this, now?”

When he doesn't respond with anything coherent, I turn to bark orders at my court.

“ _Sigg_!” I wave him over. “Don't stand there with your tongue dangling loose; tell the staff to throw this feast away. We have no use for it.”

Odin's attendant scampers off. Lord Aumdyn stomps up from my left and leans so close that I can smell his muscular foreboding like an angry armory. “Allfather,” he murmurs.

“What is it?”

“You . . .” He glances over his left shoulder. I follow his line of sight, and see a small crowd sweating nervously in the corridor just outside the hall. Aumdyn wets his lips. “Sire. The War Council has expressed concern that Asgard cannot cover your expenses. If Your Majesty continues spending on these . . . uneaten feasts . . . the cost will rise beyond what the War Council has allotted for personal rights. This setting alone is estimated at a glance to be well over—”

“The War Council has expressed concern?” I repeat, eyebrows raised. It's hard to keep the smirk from my voice. “Has the War Council asked the treasury what my little expenses are costing Asgard?”

“The treasurers made no mention of it,” Aumdyn says. “I thought perhaps they wished to keep His Majesty's expenditures to His Majesty.”

“Really? How blindly noble of them.”

To our right, King Nibelung III is in heavy whisper-mode with his court. The rancid-fruit color leaps from face to face. The entire Dwarven party looks ready to ignite.

Sigg returns with twenty strong men and women, who get to work painfully throwing out our golden tables, our golden plates, our delicacies and delectables from Nine Realms. Lord Aumdyn's strong pretty face curls in on itself. His jaw clicks.

“Wait!” King Nibelung cries.

I hold up a hand.

The golden waste-procession stops.

The Dwaven King strides toward me, black cloak billowing like a wraith.

“Why, my ugly little nemesis,” I drawl. King Nibelung doesn't look remotely into insult-wars, now. He ignores my efforts with a half-hearted sigh. “I was making preparations to move my court to your realm, yet again.”

“There will be no need for that,” Nibelung III says. His huge shoulders sag. “It seems the Fates have cast their bones for you, Odin-Asgard-King.”

“Oh? How so?”

Nibelung III puffs out his cheeks twice. He tries to simultaneously look me in the eye and not look up at me, which . . . well. Just makes me sad, honestly.

He finally admits, “I received news off from Nithavellir. I, Lord King of Shadows, must confess thus: I came for your noble feast today with intent to refuse your mighty hospitality no matter what splendor you laid before me—”

No, really?

“—for in secret I had already made plans to lavish my _own_ hall much more grandly than yours, that I might discredit you at last. However . . .” Rather than fruit, he now resembles a particularly embarrassed shadow. “This messenger tells me that raiders from the Fringe attacked my gold-hoard meant to pay for doing this to you. We are . . .” badly in debt, I think. “We are . . . willing to talk now, if Odin-Asgard-King is willing. In _Asgard_.”

“Well!” says Sigg, who apparently feels some finger-wagging is in order. “Perhaps you deserved that for being dishonest. His Majesty is very busy and his time is very important.”

“We'll set out a smaller meal,” I say, “since I will not go back on my word once given. I declared this feast unfit, so out it goes in the trash.”

Lord Aumdyn visibly bites his tongue.

“Sigg?” I say, smiling inside. “Tell the staff to throw everything out but—oh, that bowl of bread, there, beside the stuffed swan. And bring out one of the old wooden tables that our new very- _good_ -friends feared might be unstable. If the Fates truly are in my favor, they will show their support with structural integrity.”

As the Dvergr court shuffles to one side, Aumdyn approaches me again. He is not smiling, but his dark brown eyes have a distant gleam to them.

“Lord Aumdyn?” I say.

Aumdyn clasps his hands behind his back. He draws in a short, sharp breath. “The Fringe,” he says. “How interesting that their pirates came from the Fringe.”

“Oh? Why?”

“No reason at all, I do not think, but . . .” The left half of his mouth tips upward. “ . . . I wonder how pirates from the Fringe knew a Dwarven king would have a gold-hoard en route through open space somewhere.”

“A lucky shot?” I say. “Not so lucky for Nibelung.”

Aumdyn nods. “I only thought it funny because your late s—” he coughs. “—The vile traitor,” he corrects, without embarrassment, “whose name I will not speak, had many contacts in the Fringe. He used to lead Black Tower raids against derelict witch-harbors, there, as I am sure Sire remembers. Now . . . The Traitor's allies are on the rise and pirates from his past haunting ground have sent _our_ allies right to our table. Some men might take this for an omen.”

A chill worms up my spine. “And _you_ , Lord Aumdyn? Do you take this for an omen?”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “One does not get so far as I in the Red Tower without recognizing that omens mean lives. I am the son of a farmer, who won a seat in the Council through dedication and loyalty. And intelligence. Observation. _Assets_ , Sire. All assets. All unusual but necessary assets. _Assets_ win wars. _Assets_ include omens. Yes, I take this for an omen.”

“And what sort of omen do you make this out to be, Lord War Leader?” I force an easy smile.

“ _Retribution_.”

His eyes burn bright.

I say, “Whose? The Fringe?”

Aumdyn shakes his head. The gold woven through his hair sparkles like a half-hundred torches. “ _Ours_. The Traitor's allies mean to tear apart the Nine Realms but we are made strong instead, by chance. Do you see, Sire? We will see him defeated even beyond his death. Asgard will have her retribution.”

On this happy note my sparkly friend wanders back to the Dwarven party, who are gathered around their simple feast in abashed hunger.

We sit down to eat plain black bread from a plain clay bowl, on plain wooden benches round a plain oak table. Once the feasting is done, we get down to talks. Once the talks are done, I judge it safe to release one of my many enchantments. The dismissed songbirds and orchestral troupe vanish; elsewhere, down the furnace chute, I suspect there is a vibrant green aurora. Every piece of my beautiful golden feast—every item that _wasn't_ this bread bowl and accompanying wood table—turns back into stone bricks wrapped in gutter cloth.

*

Gladsheim watches me intently.

My palms are clammy.

_He will make you long for something sweet as pain._

“What proof,” I repeat, “do I have to offer that in telling me of Thanos Loki spoke true?”

Tyr's calculating stare burns down at me from on high.

Frigga's eyebrows knit together in deplorable misery.

The two Councils, the Twelve Seats, and all the gathered peasantry are silent.

Now is the moment. If I have any last tricks up my sleeve, I need them. This is the lynchpin for the entire damn war.

Pausing around what I hope looks like an imperious survey of my kingdom, I cast about for anything that might convince them. Anything at all. How can Odin have a personal report with Thanos? He doesn't. He _can't_. Not if I want to keep his image. I _need_ his image.

I need a . . . a . . .

Scapegoat.

A light switches on in my soul.

A sulfurous rush floods my veins. I glare up into the waiting masses, hating them all so much that I cannot speak. I know what to say to convince them. I know how to rig the game. I know how to win.

Never failed. It's never failed.

If I win, I will be wiped from every history book.

Never, never failed.

I will be cursed.

I will be erased, rather than merely forgotten as Odin-King's disappointing second son.

On the other hand, I can have fun exploring the limits of personal endurance with Thanos.

My skin grows cold.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

“What proof have I to this?” I say. My tongue is a dead weight.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

I am leering behind my mask. I have to leer. I can't not leer. If I don't leer, I'm going to—I'm going to—

I say, in Odin's ages-hard, indomitable voice: “Who do you think told the Chitauri where to find our homeworld? Vorsgard's location is a secret known only to Heimdall and a few of our magicians: sorceresses and sorcerers whom I am sure are beyond question . . . _and the royal family_.”

And it's over.

Another moment sinks in what I've said. Frenzied bloodlust soars from the Seats and Councilors thick and black as flies. Rage pours from Gladsheim in an unquenchable tide.

_Loki!_ _Loki told them. Loki gave them Vorsgard!_

_Monster!_

Tyr's eyes have gone wide in astonishment.

Chieftain Forseti is on his feet, pleading for peace in the face of a hurricane.

I cannot look at Mother.

When the screaming courts and peasantry reaches a climax, I hold up my fist. “Who will stand with me against this evil?”

_I!_ roars the crowd.

“Who will?”

_I! I! I!_

“Our ancestors rose up against Thanos when he foolishly thought to make Asgard his thrall. Will we tell our ancestors that we were too frightened to do the same?”

_No!_

“Will we shame our fathers?”

_No!_

“Will we be like Loki, and betray the Nine Realms?”

_No!_

“Will Asgard fight? Will we cower in fear, or will we lead the other realms to war?”

_War!_

_War!_

_War!_

_War!_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry that took a bit longer than normal. We are now back to our regularly scheduled updates.
> 
> I also wanted to thank everyone who has commented or left kudos. I'm going through some . . . interesting times . . . in real life, and your support means a lot. Cheers, and I'll see you next week.


	13. Sympathy for the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki speaks with a representative from Midgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Loki's views and opinions within the subject of religion belong solely to Loki, and are not indicative of any views or opinions held by the author. I tried to give him an outlook that matched his overall mindset; to do less felt dishonest to his character. I apologize if the few paragraphs on this subject offend as this is not my intent.
> 
> Those paragraphs will be the only time religion is discussed.

 

“Attention,” says a mild-mannered voice when I-who-am-incomparable-Odin-King step through a world-gate into Tony Stark's New York penthouse. “Intruder alert. The police have been summoned.”

“Summon your master instead,” I command. “I would speak with him.”

Small panels all along Stark's living area flick red, glaring across industrial gray walls and clean black furniture.

“Guest profile not recognized,” the invisible attendant warns me, his cool voice never wavering from professional. “The police have been summoned.”

Stark's penthouse is not frightening, even with the alarms triggered. One would think an important person such as he would invest in a few more security measures than _The police have been summoned_. I stroll to the kitchen area unchallenged.

“Sir,” the attendant protests. “I suggest you leave the premises at once. The police are on their way.”

“ _I_ suggest you let me speak with your master. Tell me where he is.”

A buzzer squawks. “Guest profile not recognized,” the attendant repeats.

Fates below, he's worse than Heimdall.

The kitchen is empty, too. Two oranges and a bunch of bananas are rusting in a steel bowl. Polished appliances shine under pure white light. There is a photograph on the floor partway under Stark's fridge. I sweep it out with my toe.

Bent photograph. Dusty. Probably lost a while back.

A woman.

Inspiration jolts up my spine. I switch out my Odin-mask for the woman's likeness, turning my illusion's grizzled gray visage strawberry-blonde and pretty. I don't expect this to work, not unless Stark's attendant is—

The red panels blink off.

Stark's attendant says, “Good afternoon, Miss Potts. I apologize for not recognizing you. I have updated my database and called off the police. Would you like me to call Mr. Stark?”

I have to grin. This is . . . beyond measure . . . the worst security system I've ever met. Thanks to this police-ringing dullard, I-as-Miss-Potts could duck behind a doorframe and wait for Stark to return without anyone suspecting something's wrong. I could summon a knife at the last minute. Draw a smile on Stark's neck from ear to ear. I could jump from the landing pad outside and escape while the attendant is still politely warning me, _I have summoned the police_.

I say, “When will your master return?”

The attendant blares his buzzer. “Voice profile not authorized. Please speak Mr. Stark's guest password.”

Voice profile?

I don't know what Miss Potts sounds like. I can't remember what Stark sounds like. I transform myself into Thor, instead. “Attendant! Summon your master. I must—”

Buzzer. “Voice profile not authorized. Please speak Mr. Stark's guest password.”

Huh. All right.

At least he hasn't summoned the police again. I don't fancy dealing with Midgard's police on top of everything else.

The plain bread I shared for lunch with Nibelung has not done anything but whet my appetite, so I open Stark's fridge and help myself to his shelves. Stark has a tub of ice cream and little else by way of food, so I filch that along with a spoon and bowl. He also has a perfectly large liquor shelf. I make myself a drink and then carry this meager hoard to his maroon leather couch before the telly.

Stark has the largest telly I have ever seen.

Unfortunately, his flipper is either the smallest flipper I've never seen or it's nonexistent. A brief inspection proves that there are no knobs on his telly, either.

“Attendant?” I call as Miss Potts.

“Voice profile not recognized. Please speak Mr. Stark's guest password.” I'm picturing, at this point, an enormous simpleton who's tediously memorized five or six standard phrases he enjoys shouting at innocent people. He probably skulks around in the corners, eating pudding with his hands.

“Where's the flipper?” I say.

Voice profile not recognized.

“How does he turn on the—?”

Voice profile not recognized. Please speak or type guest password.

A display winks to life from mid-air near my right hand. The display has keys like a semi-translucent typewriter and a blank box like the Internet search page Barton had been using.

I have no idea what the password might be.

Hacking into the picture-device is easier than dealing with Stark's manservant. In a few moments I've got the telly remapped to respond to simple hand motions, much like the divination scope on Vorsgard. I'm just contemplating the merits of cartoon bears frolicking in toilet tissue when a giant metal arm on wheels rolls right into my view. The construct is slow-moving. It blocks the cartoon bears degree by degree. I stay cross-legged on Stark's couch while it studies me with its eyeless rubber-tipped claw.

Is _this_ his security? A mechanical arm? If so, I'm not impressed. The giant arm might be good for hauling drunken guests out to the street, but would be near useless in a fight.

We stare each other down.

Then the giant arm rolls forward until it bumps against the couch.

It gently places a screwdriver on my knees.

I . . . pick up the tool in case it's an explosive or—

Nope.

It's a screwdriver.

It has some scuffs on one end and a worn metal hilt. There's even a discolored ring where the rod and hilt connect. It's not a weapon disguised as a screwdriver, or a transmitter, or . . . anything.

Feeling a bit uneasy, I set the tool on Stark's black polished coffee table.

It stays a screwdriver.

The giant arm makes a friendly warbling noise and rolls away, knocking the table askew as it goes.

I stare at nothing for a while. The telly goes on in the background, ignored.

All right. Between _I suggest you leave the premises_ and _Here have a free screwdriver_ , I think Stark's household is madder than I am.

The arm does not reappear. It might be off sharing a pudding with the invisible attendant, who also does not return.

I settle into perusing the vast channel array Stark's telly provides. By the time a door in another part of the penthouse opens and closes, I'm on my third bowl and have decided that mortals are far more discerning with their television now than they were forty years ago. Also, that historical station about Midgard's ruling families makes me feel sorry for the poor innocent Lannisters. Tony Stark's royal ancestors were morons.

Footsteps clap along the stone floor through the hall on my right.

“Miss Potts is in the living room,” Stark's attendant tells him, in the distance.

“Look, I know some things were said that—” Aha. Stark's voice. I'll remember for next time, and exchange Miss Potts's mask for Odin's. He rounds the corner and squeaks to a halt. “Honey, you got ugly in your old age.”

“You just say the sweetest things.”

“That's why you love me.” Stark looks around his room for Miss Potts. “Pepper?”

“She isn't here. Your invisible attendant is easy to fool.”

He stops in his tracks.

“I am Odin,” I say. “King of Asgard.”

Stark goes rigid. Not, _Wow! The High King of Yggdrasil!_ rigid; more _How can I make you go away?_ rigid.

That's new.

He sucks in a breath. He seems to think about it. He says, “Thor's daddy?” in rather the same tone I would expect for my own name.

“That's right.”

“Ok.” Stark jerks back to life and starts pacing his grey stone floor, staying several meters clear from me. “Here's what's going to happen. You're going to go find Thor and leave me alone. I'm not in the mood for alien space Vikings today.” He pauses. He pivots round to face me, brow furrowed. “Is that my ice cream?”

“And I'm watching your telly,” I say.

This makes him pause again, although I'm not sure why. He stares from me to his picture-device and back. He drums his right hand on his thigh. “Are you British? Why are you British? Do you come from Valhalla, England?”

 _That_ took an unexpected turn. I set down my spoon. Valhalla? _Odin_? Ew. “Are you . . . chatting me up?”

“There, you did it again—Wait. No. Why would—?” He squints. “ _Chatting me up_. _Telly_. Why are you speaking _English_ English? You have a British accent. Thor doesn't have a—”

“I am not speaking English,” I say. “I am speaking Allspeak. Your feeble mortal brain is interpreting what I say into your native language.”

“You said _telly_ ,” he says, as if this is a sticking point. “And you—”

“Because that is the name of your picture-device.”

“Yeah, in the UK.”

I work at levering more ice cream from his container into my bowl, because I know this will irritate him. “I need to speak with SHIELD.”

“Ha! Good luck. If you can find what's left—tell you what, don't tell me about it.”

The ice cream unsticks with a gentle plop. “What do you mean,If I can find what's left?”

“They're gone. Exploded. Bye-bye.” Stark strides forward. He snatches his container, as if I'm a beggar who's wandered in off the pavement. Stark deposits his ice cream on the bookshelf behind him, away from me. “Also, you. Bye-bye.”

It isn't every day someone dismisses Odin. I have to suppress a smile. I want to cheer him on.

I'm resigned to say, in the Allfather's gravest voice, “I need your help. Asgard needs your help. You, and the other Avengers.”

“Shit.” Stark scrubs at his left eye with a fist. “Do _not_ tell me your asshole son broke out of space prison.”

“He did.”

“Is it too much to ask that people capable of building a stargate can keep Psycho Diva and his one-color Rubik’s Cube locked up? Please tell me you remembered to take his glowstick away before carting him off to Azkaban. I gotta say that's on you, buddy.”

“Loki is dead,” I tell him.

“Good riddance.”

I think I liked Stark better when he was trying to chat me up.

“That isn't—” I sigh. Being Odin is more a prison than my cell. I amend, “. . . why I am here. There is a grave threat growing on a planet in Asgard's domain. An invasion is planned for two days' time to cancel this threat, but in the event that this invasion fails every being in our realm and yours will be under attack. I came here to extend an offer of alliance, and to warn the guardians of Earth that such a time may come when we need to unite against a dangerous foe.”

Stark stuffs his hands in his pockets. He makes an exasperated sigh, as if I am telling him this specifically to annoy him.

I like him.

“You must find the others SHIELD once brought together to defend your world from the Chitauri,” I say.

“Yeah, about that.” He gives me a dirty look. “I'm still getting crazies on the roof trying to sacrifice a goat so Reindeer Games will come back and cleanse the world of sinners.”

I smirk, although Odin wouldn't. This is the best conversation I've had in some time. Which is sad. “Ah. Religious sadomasochism at its finest.”

Stark cocks an eyebrow. “You're some kind of expert on the human race, now?”

I relax into his couch, smiling—although again, Odin wouldn't. “I have lived in your realm many times. Most recently, yes, in London.”

“Ha. Nailed it.”

“I've noticed that certain individuals among you react to a deity—rather than by trying to live in love and harmony as is almost unanimously prescribed—but by acting as frightened children eager to please a cruel master by biting each other in the neck.”

“This from the alien douchebag responsible for the Vikings?” Stark eyes me, and nods. “Yeah, good going.”

“But Asgard is a harmonious city,” I protest in sing-song. “We don't attack innocent populations. We defend the cosmos from evil. Every schoolchild knows that.”

“Yeah, well. You can bet the media's been a factual blast dealing with Tall, Dark, and Spiky's attack in New York. About half the country thinks the Biblical Apocalypse has started and the guy with the horned helmet is Satan.”

“They're fangs,” I tell him. “Serpent’s fangs.”

“Yeah? Why are they upside-down?”

I have to pause when the image of downward-pointing fangs fills my head. Er. Both literally and figuratively.

“I think he should have started over,” Stark muses. The same image is imprinting itself in his brain, apparently. “Chosen a different spirit animal.”

“What you said about horns,” I say, to change the subject to something less horrifying. “I suppose that shouldn't come as a surprise. Your Christians taking the Norse stories and trying to fit us into archetypes they are familiar with, I mean: Odin—myself—must be God, making Thor Jesus . . .” My lip curls. “Leaving Loki cast as Lucifer to round out the set. Huh. That is actually a frighteningly good comparison—Lucifer and Loki.”

Stark looks surprised. “No love lost between father and son, I take it. Was it the helmet? Cause I'm not kidding. That was a hideously stupid helmet.”

Is not a stupid helmet.

“You misunderstand.” A warning pulse races through my chest. I have the odd sensation of being outside myself, watching myself, knowing what I'm doing and at the same time I know I shouldn't do it. _Be a good puppet_. _Keep your mouth shut. Be Odin._ But being around Stark gives me a warm glittery feeling that I don't particularly like. It's distracting. Something in his irreverent deadpan snark, or his rumpled hair. The way he keeps moving around, as if standing still too long causes him physical pain.

After the invasion, I might come back to give him a forcefield generator. Just a small one. A personal shield, maybe—something he can tinker with. I wonder what he'd do with it.

I need to stop thinking about that.

I tip my head against his couch cushion so I can clear my thoughts by studying his ceiling. “I never understood why Satan and Judas were made targets for such ire. If Jesus planned to be executed in order to save your Christians, than he must have plotted to have himself turned over to the Romans. Is that right? Judas is not his betrayer. Judas is his dearest friend and accomplice. Judas is the one Jesus turned to when he needed a dirty scheme for the greater good.”

Stark makes a huffing laugh. I can hear him shifting from one foot to the other. “Uh, that's—I guess—an interesting take.”

“And as for Satan,” I continue, “if God rejects sinners and Satan punishes sinners, then both God and Satan are on the same side. If Satan and God were truly enemies, God wouldn't let Satan be in charge of Hell. The true enemy of God would reward sinners, not punish them. Satan would steal souls from Hell to fill out his own demented paradise, not imprison them under torture because they disobeyed God. You don't let the Soviet Union run your traitors' prison, after all—or at least, I hope you don't.”

“Okay,” Stark says. I glance over. He's waving a hand at me to distance himself from the conversation, turning away. “You need to talk with a priest. Or an exorcist. Probably an exorcist. I'm the wrong guy for this, uh, whatever _this_ is.”

I hesitate, and offer: “I will leave you with a last point, then. Do you remember the Convergence? If Loki hadn't played the villain to convince Asgard we needed to extract the Tesseract from your realm _and_ convinced your armies to relinquish it into our hands, the Chitauri would have poured through these natural gates unchecked. There would have been no convenient device on your side to shut down and stop the invasion. Once the hive came through your world would have died.”

“I'm sure he had all that in mind when he threw me out a window.”

“Asgard was too well-defended for them to risk a direct assault,” I explain. “Our fleet would have torn theirs apart. The Tesseract was safe during the Joining of Realms.”

Stark is drumming his fingers on his thigh again. I can tell he's losing interest. Although Stark is on his own world what a sorceress is on mine—a lifelong scholar with an unslakable lust for knowledge—clearly his ambition does not extend into the political.

I suppress a sigh. That doesn't matter. I finish Odin's self-aggrandizing speech with, “If Thor returns to Earth to rally your Avengers, you all must go with him to Asgard.”

And _that_ catches his interest. His fingers go still. Stark's jaw quirks to one side as if he wants to stifle an imaginary yawn—but there is a sharp light in his eyes. “Asgard is . . . where you space Viking guys live?”

“Hope we do not fail,” I make Odin tell him. “But if we do, you will get to see that stargate.” I'm assuming _stargate_ is Midgardian for world-gate.

Stark makes a last play for bored but fumbles his frown twice. He finally shrugs. “Yeah. Ok. If you guys drop the ball—again—I guess I can save your asses. Cause you asked so nicely.” He locks his arms across his chest. “Maybe. No guarantees. Maybe. If you're real good.”

I get up from his couch, preparing to depart back to the realm of three royal courts teeming with Odin's bloodthirsty sycophants. The telly blares in the background, some advertisement for a car brand with which I'm not familiar as mortals in hats chase each other on a cobbled street. Rain streams from a night sky without stars. A pale madwoman with wild white hair points a gun at something off to her left. A red telephone is ringing, at her elbow.

The madwoman with funny hair—

Oh. That reminds me.

I say, “May I ask you a question?”

“Am I always this awesome?” Stark pretends to guess. “Yes. Yes I am.”

I check a smirk. “Does your world still have mental hospitals?”

Stark's eyebrows raise. “Thinking you should lock yourself in? Good idea.”

“Just a matter of personal curiosity. Once, a while back, one could say that a disheveled soul looks like an escapee from a mental hospital.”

He makes a so-so kind of motion. “Why?”

“I like to keep abreast of your world's latest developments. The last time I was in New York I made sure to learn the English King's name that I could declare myself a loyal subject and so better fit in with the locals. The year was 1775.”

“Oh, shit.” Stark smiles.

“Shit is right. I was shot through the heart and when I didn't die the locals tried to burn me at the stake for witchcraft. I miss the Scottish peoples of some decades before that. Oh well. No matter. I will take my leave now. Pray—if you pray—that I do not return.”

 

 


	14. Interlude: A Lesson on Perseverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I got all the way through what was supposed to be “Chapter 14” only to realize that the chapter I'd planned to go after that would actually do better going before. I went back and quickly wrote this new “Chapter 14”, and the original “Chapter 14” is now “Chapter 15”. The upshot is that we have two new chapters rather than one, LOL.
> 
> Also: very mild warning for Asgard's misogynistic warrior society.

This might sound odd, depending on what culture you are from, but being royalty on Asgard does not hold with it any inherit rights. Your father is King because he is the fiercest, most powerful warrior—or, in rare cases, the most venerated sage—but you, my friend, are neither. You have a title only as a courtesy to him. If you are a prince, this means that your father may one day pass the throne to you, if you are worthy of it; in the meantime you are just a skinny gangly youth who has not yet earned respect through prowess on the battlefield. You are certainly no better nor worse than the sons of your father's staff.

At twelve years old I envisioned myself worthy in a red cloak, and even if I had grown out of my Bor phase I still wanted to be Asgard's premier warrior. I lived for the dream that I would one day serve my father's honor in the War Council along with Father's closest friend, the noble Chieftain Tyr. One day, I knew, that most excellent hero would choose me from among all the city's warriors to serve as his War Leader. War Leader Loki, that's who I was. Being that I outmatched my brother in every way except crass brute strength, I would find glory in the War Council and retire only when Father would of course pass the throne to me in my turn.

How proud I would be, rising beloved through the Red Tower and then set to become warrior King of Asgard. I would command the most fiercesome army in the cosmos, at the head of a glorious empire spanning Nine full Realms (well . . . seven, really, but who's counting Svartalfheim or Jotunheim?). I would rule with a stern—but just—hand. I would be celebrated by legend and history. I would be feared by my enemies, and worshipped by my subjects. So, when I reached the summer of my twelfth year, Father sent Thor and I to War Academy where we joined every other boy of means in setting out to earn our place in society.

War Academy is more-or-less what you'd expect. The trouble is, knowing a thing isn't really understanding a thing. _Yes_ , when a boy of status reaches his Age of Manhood—or soon thereafter—he is snatched from the gentling cradle that is his mother's house and handed over to the city's top fighting masters for intensive, rigorous training in field combat. I couldn't wait. _Yes_ , the training lasts about twenty-five years. So short? Well, I'd enjoy it while it lasted. At graduation, he will be ready to fight for Asgard's honor should his King so command. Again, I couldn't wait. He will have reached his Minor Majority. He will be eligible for apprenticeship or find work as a councilor's attendant. All of that is glory upon glory. But—do you know what War Academy really meant? My day stopped being a fascinating buffet of interests from physics to Jotnar poetry and focused instead mind-numbing repetitive point.

Mock battles. Weapons practice. Hand-to-hand combat. Endurance training. Drills. Navigation. History of the great campaigns. Hero-worship of dead men. More battles. More endurance training. More weapons practice. More hero-worship. More practice. More and more, over and over and over. The same structure, the same schedule, these same activities at another person's whim, every day minus holidays for every week of every month for twenty-five years. No more poetry. No more physics. No more chemistry.

War Academy was a prison—and one whose inmates take it upon themselves to make living there Helish.

Oh, they told our parents we are learning important skills: wilderness survival, team drills, honing our fighting techniques, and for the most part that's true—but what we really learn is that your new friends will pour boiling water down your back if you cry in the sparring arena. Weakness is a curse worse than any other. Sigg Eimerson might thump your back if you call him a son of a Jotun whore, but if you call him _weak_ he'll black your eye.

By age fourteen I had already reached the average height for an adult Aesir male, but to everybody's dismay my venerable size did not come with equivalent stamina. Worse, there seemed to be something . . . _wrong_ with me. My lungs liked to give out if I ran too far too fast. My bones broke easier than they should have. I took longer to heal. I had to be careful with hygiene even in the field, because infection dripped from every neglected wound. I got every sickness that came around.

I was going to be King. I was going to be War Leader. When was my strength going to catch up to my height? Thor finally grew, and by our fifth year he could look over my head. When was I going to get tougher?

_Loki the Sick. Loki the Snot. Don't touch him. He's w—_

I was done for as soon as I figured out that playing alchemy with the opposing team's breakfast finished a battle in my hall's favor more effectively than fighting them. Retaliation from both their side and mine put me in the healing ward, where the Master of the institute refused to let me be treated so I could really, _deeply_ learn my lesson.

 _You're a man, now. Stand amongst men. Manly, mannish, a matter for men. Live with honor, as men should._ These were the mantras I learned. _Have they sent us a boy or a girl? What is that clinging to his mother's skirts? Womanly, womanish, of women, go back home to your mother's teat_. I spent the next year in more fights than I could count, and finally gave up playing the right way when playing the right way meant _I lose_.

Princess Loki, Loki the Girl, Loki the Snake, Loki the Sneak.

 _You brought this upon yourself_ , the matron healer said, and I hated her for it. _Do something nice for them and they'll stop_.

She didn't know what the hell she was talking about. Show my underbelly? Never. That's _weak_.

 _They have a right to take revenge_. This was the other mantra I learned. _Why do you keep provoking them?_

But, but _they_ —

_Where is your honor? You bring shame upon your Father._

_Sort it out yourself_ , Father said. _War Academy is the place where we must learn how to navigate the adult world. How can you rule a kingdom if you cannot solve these juvenile disputes?_

I had to win.

I had to win, or I would lose my entire future. My blood turned to bile with terror at the thought. I couldn't sleep. The other boys were stronger. There were too many of them.

I _had_ to win.

Mother had the most practical solution. One night, she took me into her private suite and taught me the runic alphabet. Each rune had a name and thaumatological _sound_ associated with it, and if I could learn the little twists of will the represented the _sounds_ I could string them into paragraphs to preform a few simple spells.

She taught me a spell to make many illusions of myself, all standing together like a warband.

 _To deter bullies_ , Mother said. _That should be enough_. She had me practice until I could summon mirror images on command. The other Lokis weren't real, though. I'd been hoping I could make them fight for me, but the spell didn't work that way. They were for camouflage rather than attack. They stood in place, frozen in whatever pose I had been in upon conjuring them, so I could hide.

That's _weakness_.

I knew I would never stoop to using them in combat, but that didn't make the spell entierly worthless. I spent the midwinter holiday planting them where I knew Thor would be, because there's nothing like coming back from a run only to turn around and see three frozen Lokis on your bed diligently excavating their inner nostrils.

* * *

Doom weighed heavy on my soul the night before Thor and I were supposed to go back to our sixth year at War Academy. Midwinter holidays finished, we holed ourselves up in our shared suite to pack or—in my case—avoid packing. A cold listless knot swelled in my stomach, growing bigger with every passing hour.

War Academy was a black hole in the universe from which there was no escape. I slithered under my sheets only to peel my bedding aside and crawl out again. I sulked onto my balcony with a book, and spent more time making up excuses why I didn't want to read than actually turning the pages.

I ran water in our tub and climbed in up to my eyes to soak. The marble bath chamber echoed with voices: _Why can't you fight like a man? Is he a man? They've sent us a girl by mistake. Let's find out._

It happened as a fire in my soul: I realized what I had been unable and unwilling to face for five and a half years. I didn't want to go back.

I never wanted to go back.

How was I going to be King if I didn't finish War Academy?

There was no way out. I couldn't just _quit_ War Academy the way one might quit a lesson on songwriting or some other frivolity. Boys studied war. Whoever heard of a boy who couldn't fight? It would be like a girl who couldn't sing ballads. She might be ugly as a goat and cold as a Frost Giant, but if she could awe her husband's guests with tales of great warriors she was a good wife to have.

Girls had it easy. Memorize a few dozen songs and you're the grandest woman on Asgard. Charm some mighty warrior and spend the rest of your life in glory through his heroic sons. Girls didn't have to worry about being King. Girls didn't have to worry about someone calling them weak or fighting to prove they weren't. Girls didn't have to go to War Academy. Girls were lucky.

Why did girls get to be free? Mother got to sleep in. Mother didn't have to sit in a tub with her heart rotting in her chest because she was scared that she was going to fail in the thing she had wanted since she was a child.

_Wea—_

No. The word didn't belong to me. It didn't belong _about_ me. Angry, I slugged out of my bath streaming water I knew I wouldn't bother to mop up. My legs wobbled. I caught myself on the tub's edge.

 _Weak_.

I shivered reaching for my towel.

In the long mirror, across the tub from me, I caught sight of the unwanted skinny wiry youth whose muscles weren't grow—

What the holy hell—?

My fingers turned to clay. The towel slipped from my hand to flop lifeless on the tiled floor. Standing nude between two huge potted plants, my reflection in the mirror was a skinny wiry _girl_ with sunburnt skin and a round mouth gaping wide in horror.

My sanity fell out one ear and splattered on the floor beside the towel. I looked down. I looked at the mirror. I looked down.

Eerie calm spread under my skin.

I called, “Thor? Thor? Get Mother.”

Had I been cursed? This was a new low.

A few moments later—a lifetime in limbo, shivering in the wrong flesh with weird bits where bits shouldn't be and no bits where they should—my brother must have put his nose to the door because his voice sounded impossibly close and distorted. “Are you well?”

“ . . . No.” There was no fear. My voice came out all warbled but I couldn't stop that. Raw emotion, terrible and wild, filled me up from head to foot.

“You sound unwell.” I could hear him frowning. Even through the door I could smell the wheels turning in his head. The next time he spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost reverent with worry. “Loki, have you made yourself ill?”

“ . . . No.”

He tapped his knuckles on the wood in a tentative knock. “Let me see.”

“No.”

The knob shook.

What was I going to do? There was nothing else for it. I shimmied into my clothes and opened the door.

Thor said, “What are you doing in here?”

“Turning into a girl?” I pulled my shirt tight around my chest so he could see.

His eyes got huge. His left foot crept backward, like he wanted to bolt. “Is this more magic?”

“No. I don't know. I don't think so. I think I'm cursed.”

He started laughing. His panicked, breathy giggles snapped a tension inside my chest. After a few sputtering heartbeats, I joined him.

“You—” Thor said. He put a hand on my shoulder. My slender shoulder. He patted my collar, either to soothe me or himself. Possibly both. “You—you can't go to War Academy like that.”

“I know.” Muffled terror sparked somewhere under my ribs. Terror, and something poisonous and sinister. “Will you just tell Mother? She might know a spell to put me right.”

His brows twisted together in a stern face destroyed but his ear-to-ear grin. “You shouldn't have been playing with her magic.”

“I don't think it's me. I think this is somebody's idea of a joke. I can't even _do_ anything with magic. Mother just taught me a stupid spell to make clones. Nobody turned into a girl by making clones.”

“That you know of,” he said.

We burst into nervous laughter again.

“Nobody!” I said. “Clones are just . . . clones. They don't even talk. They're not really real. Just shadows. Anyway,” I added, because he still looked like he had a lecture burning a hole in his tongue between the giggles, “there are men sorceresses. I've seen some. If there are men sorceresses, magic can't turn a person female.”

“Male sorceresses do not count as men,” Thor said, but he began breathing easier.

He got Mother. Mother brought Father. For some reason, the sight of their second son lounging on his bed as a girl did not horrify them. Father's expression didn't turn thunderous. He didn't swear oaths about someone shaming the House of Odin. Mother didn't weep. Father nodded calm dismissal at my grey-faced brother and shooed him away easy as he would a servant. Mother closed my bedchamber door.

“Are we going to talk about periods?” I said.

“Loki.” Father hesitated. He looked like he wanted to say something difficult, but instead he merely asked: “How did this happen?” so I took them through the past twenty minutes, skipping the part where I didn't want to go back to War Academy.

Mother and Father shared a glance.

They still weren't raging.

Father sat down on my bed with me. Mother gave me a hug and told me she loved me. Father seemed to be warring with himself about something. He looked at me for a long time without speaking. Then he gave up whatever he'd been thinking about and wrapped me in his arms too.

Father said, “I could try to force your shape into that of a boy, but I think you need time to work out how you changed so that you can change back if this happens again.”

“You think _I_ did this?” I recoiled from their duel embrace.

Father ruffled my hair. “I don't think on purpose, no. Your mother tells me you have great innate ability in magics. That doesn't surprise me. Your father was a skilled magician, in his time.”

“You're still a skilled magician,” I said obediently.

Father rubbed my back. I threw my arms around him.

 _This_ was what I had been burning under, in War Academy. The unspoken adult fear that their love for me might be gone, that I would reach for Father and he'd tell me to stop embarrassing myself. _Grow up._ That I might have never gotten to hug them again, that Father would never let me sit with him while he worked again, that Mother would turn her attention to other things—who would want to live like that?

Father let me go, helped me sit up. “Stay home for the next week. I will write to the Patron Master and notify him of your absence.”

“Yes, sir.” I didn't dare show any of the sunlight beaming through me. It wasn't victory, but it was a stay of sentencing. Suddenly, the sinister feeling had a name: relief.

 _Relief_ at a cowardly, unworthy thing. What kind of man took solace in hiding? Was I weak? What was I?

King.

Maybe it was all right that I wouldn't be the premier warrior, but I would still make Father proud. How could I not make him proud, when he had done so much for me? I was going to win. I had to win. It didn't matter if everyone at War Academy shunned me, I would make myself worthy in his eyes.

I would not lose my entire future.

I would rather die.

 

 


	15. A Ghost in Asgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd here's the other chapter.
> 
> (Also: I'm revising my earlier estimate. It looks like the story's going to be at least 60 chapter long.)

I spend a solid forty-two hours building my own pyre boat and rallying kingdoms around the blaze. Loki the Vile has betrayed all of Yggdrasil for the greatest enemy our realms have ever known; no, Asgard will not sit still for that.

The High Council petitions his father the King—or, Odin, at any rate—to Unname “the Traitor”. With the public clamoring for blood at their side, I have no choice if I want to maintain my cover but sign the damn documents. Loki is stricken from all records, blotted from his family line, made nothing. In Asgard's eyes he is no longer capable of owning land or thralls, unfit to find employment, unfit to wed. He has no ancestors. He is no longer a person. Legally, he is nothing more than a walking, talking, bag of meat. It's ironic, but hatred for “the Nameless Wretch” is what motivates Asgard to do what I need them to do . . . to protect myself. Thank you, Asgard.

Alfheim, meanwhile, has slotted into place with promise of my erstwhile brother's hand. All that remains to secure this bond is the wedding itself, which means recalling Thor from his happy mortal honeymoon to palm him off with Smirna—who hates him. Destroying Asgard-Midgard marriages is becoming a time-honored royal tradition, it seems.

Nithavellir, on the other hand, is doing everything in its financial power to help solidify the inter-realm alliance by contributing the absolute minimum required not to make Asgard declare war on it instead. If I hadn't already taken a downpayment from them by way of sending Black Tower guards after a suspected pirate fleet on its way to the Fringe, I might be seeing a darker shade of red than I am. I am worried, however, that this minimum-contribution plan is evidence of worse than greed. Nithavellir has no forthcoming wedding to bind their fate with ours. Nithavellir is a free agent. They could be planning to betray us.

So. In between all the logistical puzzles that go into planning a four realm joint invasion, plotting to stab my not-brother in the heart—enduring Frigga's sour mood because I erased one of her sons and engaged the other against his will—, and keeping one eye on King Nibelung's court . . . there is the actual matter of going to war.

The two Councils vote to annihilate the Chitauri Hive, rather than negotiate a surrender as we did with Jotunheim so long ago, and I am more than happy to stamp _this_ decree. Chieftain Tyr advises me to make our genocidal campaign twofold: first, a ground force will drive the Chitauri to Vorsgard's surface, then an aerial fleet will smash the survivors. I opt to command the fleet. Thor can lead the ground force, when he returns. Thor is good at that kind of thing. However. All this planning leaves aside one very important problem. Vorsgard has a single drop point due to its ward system, and the Tesseract could be anywhere on or under the planet's surface.

Asgard usually relies on the Black Tower to solve these issues. Aesir and Vanir mages can pinpoint a powerful magic artifact, which in this case would give our invasion a specific target to aim for. Thanks to the spy in our ranks, I can't have the Black Tower privy to martian details. I don't want to worry that the coordinates they give me are a trap. But shunning the Black Tower means relying on Elven mages. The Councils like this idea about as much as if I'd asked Laufey's sons to supper. When I further tell them that upon recovering the Cube I will hide it from us and from everyone else at the farthest edge of the Universe . . . they—

Hmm.

They submit a mass-approved petition to my personal desk. Tyr tries to corner me. Odin-King does not have the _right_ to steal the Tesseract from our hands. Not when the weapons vault is gone. Jotunheim has the Casket, the Chitauri have the Gauntlet and the Tesseract. We need whatever advantage we can grab now that we will go follow our invasion by war with the Frost Giants.

Assets, Lord Aumdyn repeats ad infinitum. _Assets_ are important. Assets win wars.

None on Asgard understand what that blue cube does. It isn't a weapon, or a power source—like the mortals thought. I cannot let Asgard have the Tesseract. The Tesseract would never stay on Asgard. Someone somewhen would make a powergrab, and that would be that. I've got to find time to plan my flight with the Cube. If all is successful I've got to snatch it and go before anyone figures out what I'm doing. But if tomorrow's joint invasion fails and Thanos's curse is broken, we need to mount a fight for our lives.

The Tesseract is an object, infinitely powerful, able to render faraway visions or tear holes in space. Imagine a sorcerer having the power to spy undetected upon his enemies. Imagine seeing what plots the rebellion is up to just by willing it. One could march a legion to war with no more effort than crossing a room. _Infinite_ teleportation. Not sorry world-gates, a handful of Jotnar or Aesir at a time. Imagine teleporting an assassin into your enemy's bedchamber past any wards they care to construct. Imagine teleporting the enemy army from the battlefield into a volcano. Such a sorcerer would be a god. We're lucky the Chitauri aren't sorcerers. And Thanos never showed the Other this power.

Thanos showed me the truth. He showed me many truths.

Some grisly eternities into my stay with the Chitauri, he had me brought to his private sanctum in a palace built from space debris. For the first time since my rebirth I had darkness, cool soothing air, no watching eyes. Thanos did not touch me. He let me rest, strapped to my pallet in one corner, while he worked nearby. My life had ordinary sounds again: data canisters and soft voices, quiet meetings, lunch. He gave me food every time someone brought him a tray.

He spoke to me, too, until I uncurled from my hiding place. He asked for my opinion on this public matter or that, as if I were anybody.

I loved him.

And yes—He told me about the Tesseract, because he was a prisoner just like I was. The Tesseract was his window. Even from afar he could use it to conjure images from other places. He showed me how it worked: There were battles raging on worlds I'd never heard of, and we could be a private audience to people I'd never met dying by the thousands. He could slither into anybody's life he wanted. We watched the universe dance like a pageant show of private horrors. We watched War, and

 

I should have taken the damn thing with me when I raided Odin's vault, but the thought of touching it makes me feel deeply unclean. There is no water in the cosmos that can wash away all the faces I've seen through its lens in Thanos's sanctum.

With the invasion drawing near, memories meld with nightmares and I wake up shivering in sweat and worse, torn in a warped dreamworld that doesn't entirely abate once I figure out I'm still on Frigga's divan. I see faces in the mirror that aren't mine. I forget where I am. Sometimes, I wake up in places I know I didn't go to sleep in. I find myself standing in a corner with my head against the wall, wearing my original face and not Odin's. During the day, my heart starts pounding hard in my chest and I can't get enough air. My chest and brain do not belong to me. They are a separate parasite inhabiting the space that used to be mine. I have to cast silencing spells least I rouse her from her bedchamber down the hall, or draw the guards for the noise I make.

It is a terrible thing to not be in control of your own body. I fear sleep more than I fear the spy in our midst. A spy must play her part in the same way I'm playing Odin—we are kindred, she and I. I can shunt aside our magic-casters and pretend it's in shame for my Unnamed ex-son. I can't shunt aside my nightmares.

I can't let Frigga know about this.

I can't let anyone know about this.

Odin-King shouldn't be white-faced from insomnia, trying to keep his heart from exploding. He shouldn't be pacing the Royal Tower, invisible, hiding from the patrols as if they are his captors and not his trusted defenders.

Tomorrow's invasion may be eating my schedule and weighing on my nerves, but this sleepwalking thing and panic-y thing needs to stop. I have to visit Eir.

* * *

The Healing Tower is shoved as far from the council towers as one can get without leaving the palace. Guest halls, kitchens, servant quarters, storage, barracks, the royal tower, the royal library, more kitchens, more servant quarters, and Frigga's indoor garden all separate the War Tower and its lesser twin, the High Tower, from having to acknowledge that we Aesir are not truly immortal. The walk from one side to the other is a tedious humiliation, mitigated in my case because I could always pretend I'm really heading to an important meeting with the King or to my favorite pastime-cum-sanctuary, the library. I'm not the only one who does this, either. I used to have fun inflicting my company on any councilor or warrior heading “to the Royal Tower” with his back unusually straight and a thousand-yard stare. My walk from Odin's private suite to this place of shame passes in furtive isolation, thank the Fates. Odin-King has even less room for weakness than the Vile Traitor did.

The Healing Tower itself is a dark maze-like structure, built so that patients can be shuffled out of sight upon entering lest they compound the ordeal by coming across anyone they know. Drab stone walls lit by torches give the place a sober, silent heaviness. The healers dress in grey to be unobtrusive and are strictly female-shaped persons, that everyone's pride remain as intact as possible. No male-shaped persons are permitted to work here.

I-Odin-King am ushered behind a wall into a receiving room by a red-cheeked grey shadow, who assures me with her head down that the Matron Healer will be along in a few moments. When Eir does step into sight with her equally drab, sober brown hair piled upon her drab, eternally-scowling head, I throw on an affable grin and say, “On Alfheim the Healing Tower is a sunlit, open-air conservatory full of children's laughter and song.”

“Perhaps Your Majesty would prefer the healers of Alfheim,” Eir retorts. Her unimpressed expression never falters.

O . . . kay then.

I resist the automatic twitch that tries to hitch my mouth into a disquieted smile. There is one thing you can say about Eir, however: because she so obviously doesn't care, it is easy to believe that she will not breathe a word to anyone about anything admitted to her in private. The Healing Tower is a crypt of buried secrets. I should very much like to plunder the vaults, one day.

I compose my face into a belligerent Odin-scowl and say, “I cannot sleep without waking up in other places. Both in the real sense and . . . otherwise. In my head. My nightmares intrude into reality.” I am oddly detached, telling her this. As if I'm relating someone else's troubles. I take a breath. “There's more. There's . . . something wrong with me.”

“Wrong how?”

“I don't know. I'm living two lives, somehow. The one where I'm here, and the one where I'm . . . still somewhere else. I think the most urgent solution I need is an ability to sleep through the night in one place.”

Eir skips over the prickly taboo of my confessed weakness without so much as flinch. She says: “I have a potion to numb your memory and one to cauterize the wound. Which would you prefer?” and that's the end of it. No startled frown. No embarrassed smile. She doesn't ask for more information. This is why I've gone to Eir, rather than Frigga. Frigga could make me a potion, but Frigga would also make the aggrieved face she's been wearing a lot around me of late.

“Not a sleep aid?” I say.

Eir considers me for a full half minute in silence before jerking a hand to indicate that I should follow. She leads me through more twisting, turning, branching, fire-lit passages to a sad brown healing room with a single white table.

The table is a soulforge.

I freeze on the threshold. I cannot let her use that on me.

Eir says, “First I am going to make sure that the problem is not magic-based. Could you have been hexed, or the target of—”

“No.”

Eir switches on the soulforge with a wave of her hand. The instrument hums to life. Bright flame-colored stars rise from the glowing pearlescent surface, rippling into a spectral graph that maps first the spell used to wake it, then residual magic evaporating from Eir's palm.

“There is no need,” I protest. “The cause is not magical.”

“It's a precaution, Allfather.”

A precaution that will show her my face is an illusion.

“I know exactly what happened,” I say. “I am merely looking for a solution.”

Her unimpressed scowl flattens into irritation.

I take defense in Asgard's machismo. In Odin's fiercest voice I say, “You will stop wasting my time. There are four royal courts in this city all vying for me at once. Before this day is through I must attend six different meets in two different towers plus the royal hall and private council room, inspect Alfr's newest military advancements, make sure Nithavellir doesn't try to cheat their contribution to the war, sign off on Vanaheim's reshipments, deliver a rousing rally-speech to the common people, apologize for a tax-raise upon said people, inspect our dark energy generators, and plan an ill-timed wedding for my absentee mortal-chasing son.”

Eir turns off the soulforge. I hide a sigh of relief.

She gives me a hard look. “If magic is involved, any potion I give you may mix with the effects in dangerous ways.”

“Fine,” I say.

“It may cause you not to sleep at all, or muddle the line between waking and sleeping.”

“There is no magic involved.”

If Matron Eir had emotions, I get the sense she would be smiling. Instead, Eir studies me as a person removed from the social and political context: with an expression of purely scientific fascination. She says, “I am concerned about prescribing you a sleeping potion if you are having nightmares. You may find yourself trapped in a frightening dream and unable to wake. I would rather treat the root cause with a potion to cauterize your mind or a potion to numb the memories responsible.”

“What that they do?”

“The cauterizing potion is for cleaning and sewing wounds shut,” Eir recites. “There is pain, but sometimes pain is good. Wounds itch when they heal; this is how we know we are getting better. The other one, the numbing potion, is an anesthetic. No healing is involved.”

“Can't I have all three? A potion to make me sleep, and—”

“No.”

“What if I take one now and the others later?”

Eir's frown deepens. She folds her arms below her thin bosom. “If you anesthetize what's troubling you, the cauterizing potion will be unable to find a wound and its effect will become generalized. Rather than integrating your healing wound into a control matrix, it will completely rewire your mind.”

According to Thor and all of Asgard, that might not be a bad thing. “Cauterizing first?”

“The anesthetic will interrupt the healing process as soon as it is applied.”

Damn magic. I say, “How about if I use the anesthetic for now and take an antidote later, when—”

“Antidote?”

I blow out a breath.

Eir withdraws a small booklet and taps the top page with a stylus. The dark, secretive room magnifies her impatience into fractured echoes: _tap ta—pta—ptap-p_.

“Just the sleep-aid,” I say. “Thank you.”

“My healers will have that prepared by this evening. You should take it no later than moonrise, if you want to be alert for battle in the morning.” Without shifting demeanor even the slightest bit, she adds, “those admitted into the Healing Tower are not permitted to visit with others seeking treatment, but I will allow you to see to your wife if you wish. She is in the next wing.”

“Frigga? Why is she here?” Delayed, introspective backwash makes me very glad that I stopped thinking of her as _Mother_. Eir might be a social and political null, but she isn't stupid.

The sour-faced Matron puts on a smile. Her smile isn't quite natural, and anyway I can see the strings. “She's fine. It's a routine examination. Everything looks nice and healthy. We're about fourteen weeks along.”

“Fourt—” my brain catches up with my mouth, and punches me in the face. “ _Child_?”

“Everything's fine. You shouldn't worry so much.”

“ _Take me to her_.”

Eir leads me through winding, dark corridors to the Women's Wing, which is not as harshly gloomy or furtive as the rest of Healing Tower and so naturally a subject for derision. Frigga is in a private room on a scrying table, which makes my skin curdle just to see. My indomitable ex-mother should not be mapped or prodded.

She sits up in alarm when she sees me.

“Thank you, Eir,” I dismiss the Matron Healer. “Leave us in private.”

“Your Majesties must sound a chime when you wish for escort from the tower,” Eir warns, and flits out as one ghost from another.

I shut the door.

Frigga draws in a startled breath.

I can't help but stare at her, sitting there. The make of her gown hides all indication that there is a knot in her belly.

“You are _really_ with child?” I blurt.

Frigga nods.

Another sibling. I am stuck, dumb, by the door. My hand still on the knob. I used to wish for another sibling, long ago. For some reason the picture in my head looks like half-Thor and half-me, which, on second thought, doesn't actually make sense.

Odin Allfather's last child.

Odinsdottir. Or Odinson.

It is a reverent horror, gazing at Frigga and knowing whose life is blooming within her. Did Odin fear for his wife and unborn babe, when he faced me back on Svartalfheim? I'm sure he did. What panic must have seized his chest, after the Einherjar guard vanished and the Unnamed One appeared.

He never understood me at all.

I let go of the doorknob and risk a step farther into the room. “Is it . . ?”

“It's a boy,” Frigga says.

Blood rushes from my head until the room swims. “That child will be King?”

“Yes.”

“What is going to happen,” I ask, meticulously, “when it comes to light that Odin-King has a third child? You made me vow to come out from hiding and stand trial. You must retract that. No one, not even the King, is permitted more than two children.”

Frigga shakes her head.

Stubborn, witless honor.

“Thor has abdicated the throne,” I point out. “The Nameless Wretch is not a contender. This third—”

“Please.” Her face is so pale she's ghost-like. “Don't.”

“You know I'm right.”

She shakes her head. “You should not have done that. Why did you do that? Odin would not have Unnamed you.”

“Yes he would have.”

The regret in her eyes pulls ripcord in my heart. Frigga holds out a hand for me. I entwine our fingers.

“I'm sorry,” she says.

“Release me from my oath.” I kneel so she has to look me in the face. “Once we have ensured Thanos will not escape, let me leave the city in secret. You have two children: Thor and—and that one. There is no crime committed here.”

Frigga strokes my hand with a thumb. “You vowed to stay until Odin returns. Odin will decide that to do. You are my son; I will not let you break your oath.”

“Fourteen weeks?” I repeat, examining her middle. I remember being with child.

“The gown hides it.” Frigga smoothes her layered finery.

“Does Thor know about this?”

“No. Just my husband, and Eir. And you.”

And select member of the Hall of Judges, I'm thinking. But he didn't tell you that. How else, in this day and age, could you _accidentally_ get with child?

To you it was accidental. Possibly. Unless you're lying to me again. To him, it was planned. He needed a second heir. He'd already written me off; I was slated for life in prison; if Odin-King made an appeal to father a third child Forseti would have given him permission. He must have known you would balk at so publicly disowning me, so he kept it from you. Considerate, wasn't he?

I clasp both of the Queen's hands in mine. “Listen. There must be some legal loophole we can exploit. I can speak with Forseti about it, if you like.”

“Do not tell him.”

“Wha—?”

“I wish you had consulted me before naming yourself accomplice to the greatest evil our realm has ever known, but I can not let you burn yourself alive.” Frigga squeezes my fingers. “Loki. This burden is my own. You will not tell Forseti that this is my second child, you will not tell him that you are dead. I hope this invasion is successful.” She grips my hands, glares at me. “I want you to step down a _hero_ when my husband returns. I dreamed last night that you saved the kingdom. I was so proud of you. In that moment, all of Asgard and Vanaheim knew that you had traded your freedom for their lives and they knew that it was _you_ , not _Odin_ , who stood before them. I want that moment. I want to be there to watch that happen. You saving the entire court as _Loki_ , as a hero. I will pray every day that it does, so do _not_ add more wood to your pyre.”

I give her a smile, because I have no words for that sentimental rubbish.

Frigga draws me close and plants a dry kiss on my forehead.

I won't embrace her.

She kisses me again, tugs my chin like I'm a child, and summons Eir.

I go through the rest of the day in a terrible humor. I can't shunt Frigga's pregnancy from my mind.

She is with child, I think while the common people applaud my speeches. King Nibelung presents me with a treatise on why Nithavellir's financial and military contribution to our alliance is twelve times lower than agreed upon—ha-ha, isn't that _fine_ , Allfather? I pass this suicide note over to Svaldir and Forseti for prompt legal ravaging.

She is with child.

The Vanir delegation is just as bad, albeit in a different direction. I want to drop them into the Void rather than listen to one more person ask what it was “the Unnamed Creature” stole from the vault.

I remember being with child.

Children grow faster than should be allowed. Children make even the most invincible hearts mortal. If my death didn't break through Frigga's serene composure, her new son's birth will crack her mask in two. I wish he would go away. I am a ghost inhabiting another person's body. All that's left of my life is filling in for Odin. My reward for success is that he gets the credit.

Queen Daina of Alfheim seems to think the entire war is a joke, which is somehow worse than Asgard's ecstatic hate, Smirna's snide comments about her looming farce of a marriage, or Nibelung trying to wriggle from my hooks. I can't tell if Daina doesn't believe my reasons for a joint invasion, or if she's just being a shit.

Frigga is with child.

Asgard is going to love him, whoever he is. Her new son will be a golden-haired, pink-cheeked glory. Frigga's unborn child replaces me. They will sit out on the balcony in the afternoons when he's finished with his studies. She will read to him now, instead of me. She will teach him how to cultivate life from warm rich dirt. He won't need to care about me one way or the other—I will be long gone by the time he is born. He will be blessedly impervious to my existence. He will be the hope of Asgard.

I wish I could start over as Frigga's new son.

 

 


	16. Bitter Truths

 

When I climb the stairs to Odin's solar I find Smirna waiting for me at the door. Her moon-bright skin and dark amber eyes set her apart from the Allfather's clinically bland corridor—but less so than the gown she's wearing, which looks like ropes of seaweed dribbling from her scalp. Seaweed made from thin ivory beads that give a slithering hiss every time she moves. Elven fashion at its finest.

“Yes, Princess?” I say.

“I hope this is not interrupting.” Smirna's tone is light, but I don't trust that at all. Smirna is like me: she learned her courtly lessons a little too well. “I spoke with my mother who is Queen after our meet today. She gave me permission to say what I am saying to you now, so I apologize for the late hour. Certainly Odin-King Allfather must get to his supper.”

“That's all right.” It's been a very long time since I've seen Smirna, today's fancy notwithstanding, even now that she is to be Thor's wife. She is every bit the pretty, polished young woman I knew. Something relaxes inside my ribcage. I'd been afraid that in returning from the Void I'd find my childhood playmate changed, that Smirna would be as different from my memories as Thor. I don't know what to make of my calm, thoughtful not-brother. Smirna had perfect.

She takes a breath, but doesn't speak.

I say, “It's all right, Princess. Please speak whatever is on your mind. The eve of battle is no time for secrets.”

Her dark amber eyes flick up to mine. She straightens her shoulders. At full height, she is almost half a head shorter than I am: a compact, composed soul. “It is not good to have secrets before battle, yes. That is why I have come. Odin-King Allfather, our Queen might have played you otherwise but Alfheim's loyalty was already assured before you sat down to speak with my mother. I do not want this wedding.”

“Thor may die tomorrow,” I say, to see what she does.

“I am not won with sentimentality.” Smirna's grey lips quirk in disgust.

“You would be Queen of Asgard.”

“I do not want Asgard.” She says, “Your—” and looks away. When she meets my eye, her gaze is frosty. “The Unnamed One won Alfheim's loyalty long ago. I would sleep easier tonight if I knew that when we fight tomorrow there is no weighing supposition that I am to marry Prince Thor.”

A warm glow sweeps up my spine. In that moment I want to take her somewhere else, possibly to the Fringe, possibly into hiding. She and I could eke out a life away from her realm and mine. We could spend centuries in a palace we'd construct wherever we choose, studying books and playing puppets with the great civilizations. No one could bother us. We would be the King and Queen of our own private universe. That would be a good life, I think.

“Granted,” I say.

She inclines her head, and her beads slither wordless music.

“Is that all, Princess?” I murmur.

“Yes. Thank you for this hearing, Odin Alfather. Good night.”

“Good night, Princess.”

Smirna drifts toward the stairs in a gentle percussive melody. The white noise jingle of her gown is like falling rain.

She is an anchor in my mind: then, and now. _Unchanged_.

Possibly, when the war is over, I will reveal myself to her. I don't know what might come of it, but I should like to find out. I have four thousand years left; I am young still; this may be exactly the mistake I need to put Asgard behind me. I'll just have to find another hell to giftwrap for Thor.

On second thought, I don't really want to go to my solar. Being alone with my thoughts is not a good thing, right now. I might get lost. I'd rather have supper and go to bed. Have supper, collect Eir's sleeping potion so I don't wake up tomorrow in a populated hall wearing my old face, and go to bed.

When I return to the royal suite after a long, horrible day there are savory smells coming from Frigga's rooms. A dozen odd aromas fill the entry hall with confections that are not simple, flat Asgardian fare. I shut my eyes to better enjoy. What has Frigga ordered for our evening meal? She would not be so coarse as to attempt buying my forgiveness with tokens. Possibly she feels tonight is a special occasion because I will be making her proud in the morning.

Two guards throw back the outer doors for me, and I stride home with my spirits floating above my head for the first time in . . . alright, with my spirits floating above my head _while sober . . ._ for the first time far too long. I will be commanding Asgard's fleet. Smirna doesn't want to marry Thor. This supper isn't Mother's plea for forgiveness but I forgive her anyway; even pregnant with The Whelp, she is making a stand against her King by refusing to forget me. She and Smirna are the only people in Nine Realms who give a damn that I lived at all—That's worth a lot, nowadays.

I slip through the dining hall's double door into happy torchlit celebration.

“Father?” Thor says.

Spirits, meet floor.

Damn.

Frigga is standing behind her son, one hand on his shoulder; Thor regards me with clenched jaw. His eyes bore into mine. Jane stands up from where she's been sitting at the dining table's far end. She looks like she's going to bolt if I make a move for the guards.

Looks like I've spoiled Thor's happy Loki-free reunion. Clearly, they hoped I would be returning later than I have.

“Odin,” Frigga says. She is curt, polite. Distant. “Thor has brought Janefoster with him. Please tell him that you do not mean to follow through with the sentence you put upon her.”

The table is set for three. Delicious-smelling dishes have been scooped onto three gold plates. Three wine goblets loiter around the table's foot—two untouched and the third almost gone; Jane's face is pinker than I remember.

“Father?” Thor shifts his weight from one foot to the other on the Alfr rug.

Oh, he doesn't really think Odin means to execute his mortal even _after_ we removed the Aether from her; no, no. The proper translation for all this tension is: _Odin, remember how you got a sword up your arse every time your Unnamed princely son disappeared with a mortal commoner? Please reassure Thor that it's all right for him to bring his mortal commoner into your royal suite_. Thor is not the Nameless One, so let's make nice with Thor's mortal wife. Thor can do whatever he likes and we'll throw him a feast for his troubles. Yes?

Hence Frigga's silent, pleading frown.

I could walk back out the door. I could go back to Midgard for a drink. Why couldn't my not-brother have swaggered home tomorrow?

They are all waiting for Odin-King to say something. I have to say something, or I'll stab my cover in the neck.

_Don't feel_. I blow out a breath. I force my comfortable slouch into the Allfather's blocky stoic posture. I give Thor a good hard look with my illusion's working eye.

“The sentence will not be carried out,” I make Odin say. “Tell me, son: Why is the mortal here?”

“Thor said you have some kind of war going on,” Jane blurts out. She glances at Thor, who gives her a reassuring nod. “I didn't want to be stuck on Earth if anything happened . . . I wanted to know.” She looks at her hands. Her fingers have gone white. “I didn't want to not know. I mean, being stuck on Earth and not hearing anything for years.”

“Father, please allow Jane Foster to stay in Asgard until we have recovered the Tesseract.” Thor's eager expression tells me that Jane will be staying whether I want her to or not. Odin—the real Odin—would pop a blood vessel. The real Odin might insist that she take accommodations in the public sector, under guard perhaps . . . but I am not Odin. And I've got a soft spot for this masochistic phase of Thor's.

Damn.

Defeated, I say, “Dr. Foster may stay until we return with the Tesseract.” But I can't quite disguise the barbed wire in my voice when I continue: “Since I am obviously not invited to this meal, I will take my supper in my bedchamber. I have more work that needs to be done.” I excuse myself before I have to sit and playact being Odin Allfather in front of his wife and son—and his son's welcomed mortal—which to be honest, I do not see going well.

If this forced retreat strikes anyone as uncharacteristic for Odin, I don't bother waiting to find out.

No one protests my leaving.

 

* * *

Odin's bedchamber is repulsive in the way that all parents' bedchambers are repulsive: an overstuffed authoritative no-man's-land seasoned with affairs one would rather not consider. I squeak open the balcony door just enough to wriggle through, pull up the chair closest to the edge—but don't sit down. My legs don't want to bend.

I shot myself in the foot, in staying. I should have rallied Alfheim and Nithavellir to Asgard and then pulled a runner. I could have left Tyr in charge; Tyr could have launched the invasion without me. Let him command the fleet, and leave Thor to bask as his parents' son without me having to see it.

I knew this would happen, and I walked into the trap anyway. Why have I done this? Life continues without me. I knew it would. I told myself so, that first night when we all walked back after my funeral. There is no room here for me. There wasn't room here for me when I was alive; less now that I'm the Unnamable bad taste in everyone's mouth. I should have pulled the tooth rather than let it fester. A brief moment in agony and knee-watering fear, and it would have been done.

Well. Let me be done _now_. Let me hurt, if the hurt will give me the strength to leave. Let me be at an end. Let me be brave for one Fates-damned moment in my worthless cowardly life, and pocket the Tesseract when Thor retrieves it. Let me throw my oath to Frigga in the fire. I've had my fun—all right, honestly it wasn't. I've had my fill. Let me go.

Sunset glares between the city's spires, an angry orange eye soaking a few lost clouds lonely gold. The evening air is cool and fragrant with sweet scents from the Queen's garden. Night sweeps the palace charcoal-black all the way up and all the way down, but if I fell from the balcony I would drop into the garden's twinkling lantern-lit paths. I don't want to be _here_ , anymore.

The balcony door creaks open a little wider. Footsteps click on the marble behind me. Cheerful banter slip out from the royal suite along with warm air that makes my stomach knot. The door is closed. I hear the lock click.

Frigga says, “I thought it would be too difficult. Please don't be angry.”

Of course she knew that having both Thor and I present for supper would be catastrophic on the night before battle. Swollen, bitter triumph drags a smile past my clenched teeth. I can't fault her. She has made her choice.

_Let me be glad_.

I say, “If you think I am angry, you mistake me for Odin.”

Thor's mother sighs. I hate it when she sighs. Sighing used to mean I'd broken something that couldn't be fixed, which is a moot question now.

I don't want to endure more platitudes on her part. There is peace now, and the fight is over. I am severing our ties.

“Thor is making a mistake,” I say, to cut off any argument she might be preparing for my sake, or my soul. “Do you know that? Getting involved with a mortal. He should have left her on Midgard. He should have got away while he had the chance, told her anything. Told her nothing, and not come back. Thirty or forty years, that's all he'll have. Enough time to start to think that he can make something really worthwhile out of the time he's got. He'll have to watch someone he's spent thirty or forty years with die.”

She presses her palm to the back of my head.

“No one could ever tell you what to do,” she says.

Why are we talking about _me_? I jerk away from her. I don't want her comfort. It's broken. It's used up.

Thor's mother says, “Would you like for me to bring you supper? We could sit here on the balcony.”

“No. Thank you.” It comes out a growl, so I give her a close-mouthed smile that she won't worry. “I am not hungry. Nerves, you know? I am commanding the fleet tomorrow. I get to take my revenge upon the Chitauri. Restore my honor.”

From the silence this brings, I can tell she doesn't believe my excuse or my excitement at vengeance. Frigga looks out over the railing, in case I'm going to be fooled into thinking she's lingering for fresh air. “What news from the High Council?”

“The Elven mages have found a power signature they believe to be the Tesseract,” I allow, because easy conversation is the best way to get her to go away. “Queen Daina has assured me. Tomorrow, one hour before sunrise, we will see if they are correct.”

“What does my son think?” she tries.

“You should ask him.”

She touches my left shoulder.

“Please don't,” I say. “Not right now.”

Thor's mother is silent for a long time. She doesn't move to touch me again. Eventually she says, “I have never seen you behave this way around an enemy. You would not stop talking about Laufey, after the Jotnar force broke into your father's trophy room. Why do you avoid the Chitauri?”

“I avoid nothing.”

“It is the eve before glorious battle. Will you not boast of how they will dread your name?” Frigga reaches out to brush my hair from my face, but her fingers catch only a double illusion. She has forgotten my real hair is shorn almost to my scalp. “I want to hear how my son intends to crush them. Mother Chitauri will warn their children of him for generations to come. What do you think they will say?”

I could tell her that the Chitauri have no mothers, nor children. They are grown in tanks at the behest of the Other, born to serve it and given a half-life millennia ago when the Other wisely placed them under their own command. They have a queen who controls the rest by telepathy, although as you might expect _queen_ is the wrong word for this Hive-element. The queen is the Chitauri, and the Chitauri are all the queen. There may be Chitauri warriors, staff, scientists, and technicians—but only in the same way that a single Aesir has a brain _and_ hands, legs, arms, and occasionally a sword. I could tell Thor's mother that, but I don't see the point.

In a deeper place in my head, I experience a vertiginous rush that curdles my stomach when I lose control enough to think about it. I want to believe they understood that I wasn't something else's hand. I'd like to think they knew exactly what they were doing to me.

They had to understand that the Other is a single organism, after all.

“What did they do to my son?” Frigga sounds angry. I don't look at her, even if I wanted to see that; I don't want her to read whatever is sure to be lurking behind my mask.

I reshuffle our _easy conversation_ by ranting, “Do you know what the most irritating part about mortals is?” as if I've been dwelling on our beloved Thor's plight this entire time. The trick here is to put so much angry passion into one's voice that it looks like obsession. If it looks like obsession, it can't be an excuse not to talk about Chitauri. Nobody wants to show madness on purpose, do they? Now I only have to make up a grievance and go with it. “They don't _learn_ from their own history,” I spit. “Their lives are _so_ short that they must rely on knowledge gained by their forefathers about everything from basic science to government policy—and yet they believe fiction stories as much or more than documented history. How is anyone supposed to keep up with such madness? Did you know that Henry thought I subsisted on human blood as the price of my immortality? Apparently some fiction immortal blood-eater book had gained popularity right around the time he noticed that I didn't age.”

Frigga accepts this change in subject with another exhausted sigh. “What is it on Midgard that both of my sons find so fascinating?”

“Poetry.”

“No,” Thor's mother says. “Tell it true. I am really asking.”

“I know. Poetry.” I've spent some centuries thinking about this problem.

She frowns.

I explain: “If Asgard is home to warriors and Vanaheim to witches, Midgard is home to poets. As I said, human lives are very short. They have no time to thrive before they must come to terms with dying. All the stages of consciousness must be compressed into a scant few decades. That does something to the soul, I think. They reach adulthood only to then grow old and die. They spend the first half of their life growing stronger and the second half growing weaker, with no pause in between to relish anything. This . . . continuous waxing and waning affects every fiber of their civilization, whether they notice or not, from politics to friendship. They don't have _time_ to learn who they are before they have to relearn who they have become. There is no fixed constant in their societies, even among its people. When everything changes from one year to the next, they can never get used to anything before it's whisked away. They are a species living in a literal Helheim—and yet, many of them are kind. That is the most profound type of poetry: kindness in the face of evil.”

Frigga makes a strangled choking sound. “How do you _do what you've done_ and then say things like that?”

“I think . . . the reason you are asking me that implies that you do not understand what I have done.”

Creases mar her brow. I can see her gazing at me from the corner of my eye, an odd glassy expression drawing her mouth into a sallow frown. She reaches to take my left hand.

“I wish not to be touched,” I say.

She touches her lips instead, like a child, and stares out at the drop into the palace's Royal Courtyard.

“This cannot have been easy for you,” she says in a low voice, as if she's trying to reason to herself. “You _are_ doing a good job as King. You are listening to Tyr and the councils. You have not made any legal decisions that would spark a revolt. You have treated the public well. You have been fair with taxation.”

“I've only been playing King for a week. How much trouble could anyone get up to in a week?”

“You have been helping,” she says, still as if to herself. “Oh, this cannot have been easy for you. Unnaming yourself. I am so sorry I could not protect you.” Pity and excuses—aha. Not only does she not understand what I've done, but she thinks she does and that it's _I_ who do not understand what I've done. Poor deranged Nameless.

“I don't want you to protect me.” Anger tries to flare in my chest, but I stamp it out. Purifying self-hate surges up to wrest control. I say, “How far back, do you think, would I have to go if I wanted to rewrite history? Turn my life around, before trajectory and inertia took it so far off course. Maybe if I had let Thor be crowned, even though I knew he would have been a terrible king . . .”

But Frigga doesn't know that I interrupted the ceremony. No one on Asgard knows I plotted with Laufey to smuggle his people into the weapons vault in time to stop Thor being made King. I think, even though she claimed to still love me, she would have me arrested if I ever told her.

“What do you mean, if you had let him be crowned?” she says.

I wave her question aside. “It doesn't matter. I couldn't have lived with that choice.”

“What choice is this?”

“Oh. If I had tried harder to stop him from going to Jotunheim,” I lie. “When Jotunheim made a play to steal back the Casket, I was angry. Thor wanted to go after them, to exact revenge, and I went along with it.”

“There were many choices along the way.” Frigga states. “You didn't have to use the bifrost as a weapon against Jotunheim.”

_This_ again.

“Hey, _speaking of—_ ” I cock one foot behind the other and lounge sideways against the railing, so I can see her face, “why didn't you just tell me what I was from the start?”

She looks at me. “We didn't want you to feel unwanted.”

“Maybe if I had known, I wouldn't have fought so hard to save Asgard. _Let_ Thor-King get us into a pointless war. _Let_ Aesir and Jotnar each throw themselves at the other until none are left. What should I care? What were you even planning to do with me? What was Odin thinking, when he brought me home? When he told you you were to raise a Jotun freak at your breast alongside your own son? I can't figure that part out.”

“Compassion. Compassion for a little one who had nothing.”

“I have nothing now,” I say.

We are silent for a time. This heavy silence is unbearable.

I say, “By the way, I called off Thor's wedding to Princess Smirna.”

Frigga jerks round to face me in full. “You did?”

“Yes. I'm sure she and Thor will be heartbroken.”

His mother laughs. She hugs me tight around the ribs, forcing my head to her shoulder.

“The Elves are already loyal allies,” I tell her embroidered collar, “thanks to their affection for one who is Unnamed. Daina's suggestion was a bid for power, and no more.”

“Thank you.” Frigga kisses my cheek. “Thank you.”

It's tragic, in a way. I always could make Frigga believe whatever I wanted. Gaining her cooperation has ever been as easy as simply indulging her own hopes. Let her deceive herself. Play along as much as I needed, oftimes just by keeping my mouth shut.

I never had any intention of staying until Odin returns. Why should I? What purpose is there in waiting around? I know very well what Odin would say, if he returned to find me sitting in his throne wearing his face. Frigga mistakes ancient betrayal for everlasting love if she imagines that my vow upon Hallormr, Halldór, and Hallveig could mean anything at all but a whiff of her own fear.

I don't even remember my children's faces.

 

 


	17. The Meaning of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was a much longer delay between chapters than I ever intended to have. I swear an Asgardian oath it had nothing to do with the story and everything to do with suddenly finding myself without a job.
> 
> Reassurances all around that my enthusiasm for this story has not waned in the slightest. Updates will be a bit slower than my usual once-a-week until I'm able to find more work, but they'll keep coming. All forty (plus?) more chapters of this are strenuously outlined. Next two chapters are the invasion (part 1 and part 2), and after that . . . things get wild.
> 
> PS:  
> Thanks so much for the kind feedback! I do see Loks as such an incredibly smart person that I'm glad he's reading that way. He's got a, uh, bumpy journey ahead of him. Teeheehee. Poor creature.

Eir's sleeping potion sucks me into oblivion and holds me there until some black hour in the morning. I wake up plastered to a bed in the dark, but in the wordless dreamscape that's followed me into consciousness I can't remember whose bed I'm in. There in an innate . . . bed-ness . . . that suits me fine as a feature of this universe.

Consciousness is a haze of sensations: bed, heavy covers sapping strength from my spread limbs.

I understand that if I want to go back to sleep I must drift into the weightless null that precedes sleep. A grimy, mealy paste seeps along inside my skull, promising itching eyes and sludging thoughts tomorrow. I must return to sleep, but I don't dare take any more potion. I can't miss the invasion tomorrow.

Weightlessness.

Make myself weightless.

After a little while I surface from the oceanic dark in my head to become aware that my left arm is levitating a few centimeters above the bed. I'd expect a floating arm to be forced down by the heavy covers, but I can't feel the covers any more. Some muffled, slumbering part of my head is thrilled because this is the first time I've ever levitated. Ah-ha _. . ._ This must be the weightless feeling I'm going for. Right? This must be a step in the journey toward sleep. _Perfect_. I'll be asleep in no time at all. Also, levitating is a bit exhilarating. It isn't possible.

After a little while longer, I surface again to find my right arm levitating, now. When I think about it, I notice that my legs are also a few centimeters above the bed.

Good, I've achieved weightlessness. Sleep is around the corner. I hunt through Vorsgard's brown skeletal ruins to find it, but all I've got to help my search is a dirty glass lens.

The Chitauri springs up from nowhere, invading my consciousness like a parasite. It's on top of me—a cut-out image superimposed over my invented world.

Harsh reality splashes up my spine in a wave of pain. Cold truth breaks over my face. I have one knife-sharp glimpse into my surroundings as they really are: searing white lights, the paralytic pumping through my veins, a frenzied clawing in my soul for the only escape I have: my mind rejects this place utterly and in full. I sink back through the pretend door which is—

Which is—

I spasm upright in Odin's sheets, gasping—and come eye-to-eye with a pale reptilian face.

A real one.

The Chitauri is still on top of me, dry hands pulling a syringe from my throat.

My mind shrinks to a point. I blast the creature across Odin's room.

Flames burst from my curse's epicenter. My magic explodes in the stifling air, lighting up the ceiling, ripping through the far wall. A vortex consumes the drapes.

The Chitauri collapses in a hollow aurora— _illusion_.

It's an illusion.

Holy Fates below, an _illusion_.

The illusion burns out. Dirty eyes and long teeth, grey skin, and syringe fade.

Pounding on the door.

Black soot and green fire ignite the bed's end.

My limbs are locked in place. I can't move. I can't think. My head is empty.

A second magic burst. Yellow sparks hiss through the gaps under the door, joining the furnace around me. The ward system buckles. Royal guards and the Queen rush into the flickering smoke-filled bedchamber.

Frigga casts a spell upon me and then I am seized and dragged, without resistance, from Odin's bed. Burning sheets crackle past my legs. The private corridor appears, ghost-like. Cold air douses my face.

Warm, armored, Aesir hands pull a thick cloak around my shoulders. I am forced onto a chair.

“Your Majesty! Sire, the blaze is contained,” Guard Leader Dagg tells me. Why is he shouting at me? His green eyes are made brighter by the soot smeared up his round, pockmarked face.

“Stop screaming, my love,” Frigga says.

Who is screaming? Through the haze in my brain I can't hear a thing.

Dagg pivots to address the Queen. “Shall we send for the Black Tower? Healers?”

Frigga looks at me. She looks at Dagg. “. . . No. I will tend my husband myself. Guard Leader? Do not tell my son of this.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And do not file a report until after the invasion. His Majesty the High King is well and able. We will be a terror upon the cowardly Chitauri, who hide in the rubble of Vorsgard.”

“What report?” Dagg says, expression blank.

“Thank you. Dismissed.”

Dagg tries to station two guards outside the royal suite, but Frigga shoos them away. I can see the inferno raging behind Odin's re-warded door; beautiful, boundless emerald sparkles just out of reach, licking between door and ceiling and door and floor. Green forever. It's a deadly black magic curse. _Soul's Pyre_. I wonder if Dagg or his guards will spread rumor that the Nameless One has cursed Odin-King's bedchamber from beyond the grave?

Frigga sits down beside me.

“How did I get into Odin's bedchamber?” I ask, when the haze retreats. My throat is raw.

She pulls my hair away from my face, and my illusion's longer grey locks dutifully follow course.

“I have no memory of going into his bedchamber.”

“You slept there last night. Remember? In case Thor came to see you.”

I don't remember. I can't tell if that scares me, or if it scares me that it _doesn't_ scare me.

“Do you want to tell me what just happened?” Frigga tucks my cloak tighter around my shoulders in galling motherly affection . . . which, just now, I don't mind.

“How long have I got until the invasion?” I say, instead.

Frigga blows out a breath. She sounds very like me when she does that. “Odin. You are shaking.”

No, I'm not.

“I don't think—” She squeezes her hands together. “Loki. I do not think you are well.”

“I am fine.”

“What were you doing? Were you sleeping?”

I make a _no_ sound.

Frigga presses a warm palm to my forehead, pushing me back against the cushions. She flips the hand over to check for fever. She picks up my right arm, turns my wrist, checks my pulse.

“How long have I got?” I insist.

She places my hand in my lap, then places the other beside it. She draws the cloak snugger. “Stay here. I'm going to undo whatever spell you cast.”

“You can't.”

“What do you mean, I can't?”

“It's a curse. I've got to undo it.”

Frigga wraps her arms around me and now we're standing. My chin is smooshed against her collarbone. I'm pretty sure I don't have legs. She guides back through the corridor toward the place where green starlight is shimmering. We stop in front of a blistering, smoke-blacked door.

“Now what?” Frigga says.

“Open.”

She releases me to cast a holding charm against heat and backdraft, then tugs the door handle with magic. Green fills my eyes.

It's beautiful. It's raw chaos. It's creation and destruction, wild, frenzied, bodiless, leaping, swirling flames. The drapes are gone. The far wall is a rippling sheet. There is no separation between ridged, unyielding shapes like _bed, desk, dressing room_ —there is only the kinetic freeflowing dance; places where glittering light chooses to whirl upward or bloom into massless energy more profound than anything so course to have a _name_. The static universe is consumed, dissolved.

 _Dissolved in light_.

Frigga hooks her arm around my left elbow. She pulls me against her.

Thoughts slug back into my head. I'm supposed to banish the fire.

The inferno dies in an instant.

“Bath,” I say.

Frigga banishes the smoke, casts sealing spells over weakened walls and the ragged ceiling. She closes the door and Seals that, too.

“Bath,” I say.

She has to help me cross the royal suite, which is unbelievably huge and empty in the moonlight.

Odin's attendant Sigg arrives some hours later. “Your Majesty? I have brought your armor.”

Thor's mother and I have eaten already, soups and pastries as if I'm home sick from my lessons, but Frigga is toying with a second bowl and pretending she doesn't need to return to her own bedchambers. She looks up at the word _armor_ , lips pursing.

I say, “Please leave that here and get Tyr for me.”

Sigg reverently lays out Odin Allfather's astrium plate and crimson warrior's cloak. He bows low to the ground and makes himself scarce.

“Son,” Frigga murmurs. She's been speaking in a near-whisper all morning, as if in fear that an unexpected noise will strike me down. Even with every hearth, lamp, glowsphere, and sconce lit I have to be under the luminescent white lights in Frigga's herbalist's room. This means that Frigga has moved her seedlings to the floor so she can play with her breakfast on her apothecary's desk and I've got to avoid stepping on them while I pace. The moment I shut my eyes I forget I'm in Asgard.

She says, “What of the fleet?” It's not really a question posed to me, but I answer anyway.

“Do you think me a fool, Your Majesty?” I shake out my right hand, which is trying to freeze into stone. “I'm going to have Tyr command the fleet. If I take the center ring now I'm liable to slip up. I can lose my Odin-Mask. I could say the wrong thing to the wrong person.Ah!—Odin wouldn't say _please_ to Sigg, I wasn't thinking. I should summon him back so I can yell at him properly.”

“I do not think you are a fool.”

“What am I going to tell Tyr?” I spin around. “What would Odin tell Tyr?”

Frigga gazes at me, her face growing red with determination.

“Your Majesty?”

She sets down her fork. “Odin would command the fleet.”

I have disappointed her. _Weakling_. _Coward_.

The Queen is talking.

“Hmm?” I say.

Silence.

My eyes hurt. I come back to myself and realize I've been staring at the ceiling, where the lights are. I wince, look down to face Thor's mother, and find the red heat in her face draining to be replaced with terrible grey.

“What did you say?” I demand. “Just now. I'm sorry, I was . . . thinking.”

The Queen shakes her head, as if it is she and not I who am failing. “You should not command the fleet,” she says.

I give an apologetic shrug. “I told you. I've had to learn which days are good.”

A real Aesir would argue with her, demand to be allowed into battle. If I was half the person my not-brother is, I would activate Odin's armor and let no man or Fate stop me finding glory behind a sword.

 _Coward_ , I snarl at myself. Weak. Unworthy. This was to be my moment. My revenge.

Coward.

Nameless Scourge. Be glad that she's got a better son on the way.

“Anyway,” I say, “wouldn't it help my case when Odin returns if he finds me staying out of the glory? I suspect he'd be even less pleased coming home to find the Unnamed One playing at command rather than sitting on the side cheering for Prince Thor.”

“I wanted to be selfish,” Frigga says.

I give her a small smile. “I can't exactly fault you for that.”

Frigga brushes her night-cloak straight so it hangs like a maiden's veil from her shoulders. This is a nervous habit she has when she's been defeated and knows it—when Odin forbade her from visiting Thor on Midgard during her son's banishment, when she wanted to relax the restrictions on Vanaheim-based magical items sold on Asgard; a million smaller battles in eleven hundred years of marriage. It was Frigga who advocated for me when Heimdall finally caught up to my little farm on Midgard. I'd run away; eight years later they snatched me back like I'd been a wayward toddler rather than a consenting adult, a wife and a mother. Human lives are very short, she'd told the King. Give him fifty years.

Human, said her husband. He has brought disgrace upon the House of Odin. I ought to give him fifty stripes. The filthy uneducated barbarians.

 _Please_ , I said. _Let me go back. Let me say goodbye_. _Just for one day. Just for five minutes_.

Frigga says, “Tyr will lead well.”

“I'll be on Overwatch,” I say. I'm glad she's coming around. “I'm not out of the fight. I'll be the one telling them where to concentrate strength . . . so Thor had better be nice to me or I'll send him out of the battle.”

“Lord Aumdyn will be honored to have your command.” Frigga places her hand on the back of mine.

I hesitate. My instincts tell me to jerk my hand away, but I can endure her touch for the moment. We've built so much upon this fleeting trust, her and I. Today is the day we see whether this treason of ours is made from stacked brick or stacked cards. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”

* * *

I take my seat at breakfast to a standing salute. I've already eaten, my stomach is roiling, but the Great Hall overflows with warriors from four armies so appearances must be maintained.

The dense air smells like excitement and bloodlust. When the warriors sit, impatient armored hands chew through wooden bowls overflowing with flaky black bread stuffed with seeds and fruits, eggs by the thousands, hot cheese pies, and spiced meat.

Every light looks a little too bright.

Every shadow is the wrong shape.

Thor looks up from his breakfast on my right. He and his idiot friends Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, and Sif—whom I have thankfully not had to deal with for an entire week—are boiling over in cheerful conversation.

Thor says, “Good morning, Father.” _Good morning, Your Majesty_ , chorus the idiots.

“Good morning.” I take my time choosing among the meat rolls and stuffed bread, to delay my having to force anything else down my unwilling throat. “Where is your mortal?”

Thor glances at his hands to avoid meeting my bloodshot eye. “In her private rooms.”

He's learning.

Thor without Jane looks somber, small, misplaced. He nods along with Sif's loud tale detailing the horrors in finding Dwarves in the practice yard, but has nothing to contribute to Fandral's lovelorn assertion that Princess Smirna is the sweetest creature in any branch of the World Tree.

 _I hypnotized myself last night_ , I want to tell him.

Thor would raise his eyebrows in the baffled, affectionate way he does when I mention some new intellectual or thaumatological accomplishment.

 _I don't understand smart things, brother_ , those eyebrows say.

But I haven't got anyone else but Thor. Thor and Frigga.

 _It wasn't on purpose_ , I'd tell him anyway. _Actually, I was just trying to go to sleep. Eir gave me a sleep aid and it wore off. Well, more or less. I think I was still pretty drugged, so I started hallucinating and then I hypnotized myself by accident._

Thor would laugh and glance sideways at his friends, to make sure this nonsense isn't being overheard. _Hypnotized yourself? To do what?_

_Nothing. I thought I was levitating. Then I accidentally conjured an illusion of what I was seeing in my head. And then I thought it was real so I blasted it with magic._

_You are mad, brother._

I furrow my brow at this. I'm not sure he's wrong, but . . . I'm not ready to bow to the inevitable failure just yet. _I . . . think madness would be if I thought it was real after I woke up. I know it was a hallucination_.

 _Hallucinations are madness, too_.

_Yes, but I was hypnotized at the time._

He thumps his fist on my shoulder and changes the topic. _You should come by the practice yard tomorrow, after this war is done_.

I don't want to go by the practice yard, I want to tell him but can't. I'm not feeling very well. I keep seeing things that aren't real.

Thor continues: _I will tell Sif to go easy on you._

 _Go easy on him yourself_ , Sif cuts in. _I have but two ways to fight: a fast kill, and a slow painful kill_.

Volstagg says, _He could fight an Elf. Elf women fight. An elf woman would be a better match for Prince Loki._

The idiots laugh.

 _My brother would not fight if he faced the Elves_. Thor slings an arm around my back as if this could take the sting from his words. _They would sit in a circle reading books and weaving feathers into each other's hair_.

Fandral interjects, _Perhaps he can introduce me to the Princess_. _I can help pull the_ _feathers_ out _of her hair_.

 _Have I angered you, Father?_ Thor says, inexplicably.

 _No, I quite like this idea of Elves_ , I sneer.I keep my tone light, to match theirs. _Perhaps I can lead them in a warband against you. What do you say? You and your friends against me and mine—_

“Father?” Thor repeats. “Have I angered you?”

The table is quiet.

Sif, Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun are glancing between us.

I've been staring at Thor without speaking.

Oh, Nine Unholy Realms. I've been staring, mute, at my not-brother for Fates know how long. At least, I _hope_ to Helheim I haven't been saying any of that out loud.

Thor's handsome face is stiff with worry.

Red-faced with shame under my illusion, I make Odin clear his throat in a brusque regal way. “I was only thinking about the past. The mortal, the Chitauri. I have placed Chieftain Tyr in command of the fleet.”

Thor's mouth opens in surprise. “Tyr is a good and noble man. But I had heard that you would fight with us.”

I make Odin set down his uneaten roll. If the Allfather's lost in thought it's got to be for a damn good reason. I invent one. “My time is done. Asgard must look to its future.”

His son's neck muscles constrict. “I thought we had reached conclusion to this. Father, I—”

“Leave us,” I command his friends.

Fandral, Hogun, Sif, and Volstagg rise, salute, and depart. Fates Below, to have had that power while I still lived.

To Thor I say, “We have. You have refused the throne—so be it. In the wake of your brother's arrest I had sought permission from the Judges to father another child.”

Thor scrapes back his chair, eyes wide blue suns. He says, “Forseti would have refused.”

“He did not.”

Thor is frozen to his chair. His voice is low, almost a growl. “Is this why you Unnamed my brother? How Mother let you do such—”

“Your Mother is my wife. She understood the necessity of my actions.”

“His name,” Thor spits out, “was Loki.”

Mania fizzes up through my chest, flipping a switch somewhere in my head to become perverse delight. I fight down a lunatic smile. “That name is nothing any longer.”

Thor smashes a fist on the table between us.

“I am sorry,” I say. “I did not mean to have this conversation with you before you go to war. Forgive me.”

Thor leans close. I get a whiff of armor polish and the unperfumed soap from the common barracks. Thor's face is dark with effort to restrain himself. “I will. But I will not forgive you for what you've done. Sif told me. Father, Loki would not have allied himself to Thanos.”

“Should I perish before my new son is of age to take the throne, you will rule for him as Prince Regent,” I say, ignoring this blithering.

“All he ever wanted was to please you.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Loki was mad,” Thor says, “and cruel by the end of his life. He would never have betrayed you. You must retract this slander.”

Listening to this fool try to defend me to me is too much to bear, right now. I make Odin shout, “You will not tell me what I must do in my own hall.”

The High Table looks over. Thor turns away and lets his fist slump onto his knee.

 _Fates_ to have been able to command him before I died.

“Thanos,” my not-brother repeats in a much softer voice, lips curling around the name. “Who has fed you this story about Thanos? Whatever Loki's Chitauri want with the Tesseract, they have nothing to do with Thanos.”

I don't want to talk to him about this right now. There's a small sharp pain in my head, and I've already wound him up to the point where another argument might compromise him in the field. “You need to focus on the coming battle,” I say. “We must recover the Tesseract. We will speak more later. Tomorrow. Nothing will change between this moment and tomorrow.” Except I'll be gone.

Thor bows his head.

After breakfast I break for the Healing Tower, running over and over what I'm going to say to Eir. Thank you for the potion, is a good way to start.

Did you sleep well? she would ask.

Yes.

Good, she'd say.

Yes. One problem.

Yes?

Your, uh, potion. I'm hallucinating.

I squeak to a stop.

No. That's no good. If I tell her there's something wrong with me that has a definite magical origin she'll try to make me lie down on the soulforge. I have no real excuse for her why I can't lie down on the soulforge, other than that she'll find out about my Odin-mask.

The hallucinations will wear off by tonight, I'm sure.

I grip my hair. My chest spasms. I think I'm going to sob until my teeth bare and I'm sniggering instead, wilted double in place. I'm drowning again. Gasping, giggling, soundless.

A knot constricts in my ribs where I can't shake it free. The fleet is preparing without me. Tyr has my place. I have no chance for glory. I never had a chance for glory, not even in someone else's name.

“Sire?” an ordinary, happy, sane man calls out somewhere behind me.

I let go of my hair. Bit by bit I stagger upright, until I might be in control. “Who is there?”

“Thor,” says the unfamiliar voice.

I pivot hard on my heel, manic smile wrenching into place—

He's a guard. A guard named Thor.

Of course he is.

“Thor son of Brunigg,” the young guard apologizes, evidently for the look on my face. “Shall I escort Your Majesty to the War Tower? The Lord Guardian gives us all clear to begin.”

“No.” The last thing I need is to lose my senses in front of four armies and every war-councilor in Asgard. “Send an Alfr mage and some low-ranking member of the Red Council to my private solar. I will be in communication there.”

My will is carried out without question. The wondrous Odin-King is a fantastic tomb.

 


	18. Invasion, part 1

 

I'm feeling more stable by the time pre-dawn paints the solar's floor-to-ceiling windows gray. A little loose around the edges, sure. Maybe a bit jumpy. But the shadows look like shadows again, and I'm no longer in danger of waking up from Asgard to find myself back in my horrible little Chitauri cell.

My Alfr mage has rigged a command center in a dozen holographic divining scopes, which glow eerie orange against the opaque, fishbowl windows. The nearest displays Asgard's staging area with its dark energy generators, filled with our bristling, armed and armored legions set for transport to Vorsgard. The rightmost is aimed at the fleet hovering silent over our city's night-lights, ready to teleport at Tyr's signal. The leftmost peers through the single chink in Vorsgard's ward network to blasted mud. The remaining nine are tethered to chieftains within my joint army, including Prince Thor. I get to watch Prince Thor save the day. Again.

Oh, goody.

“On your command, Allfather,” Tyr says from Display 5. “Fleet is ready.”

“Ground is ready,” Thor agrees. His golden face swings into view on Display 4, so I switch it off. “Upon your command.”

“War Leader is ready.” Lord Aumdyn's voice comes from a speaker below these shiny glowing scopes. I don't need to see into the Red Tower, because the only people in the Red Tower are feeble old men far past their fighting days. Oh, and Aumdyn. He of the glittery hair must stay behind to provide oversight along with the Elder Council—alas, the horror of being Tyr's right-hand man.

The bastard.

Of course this is how the war begins. Thor will be a hero. I've been cheated out of a shot at glory . . . everybody hates Loki . . . All is right and true with the universe.

“Proceed,” I command. And close my eyes as every able man and shieldmaiden except for me—and Aumdyn, but who cares—vanishes from Asgard.

The dark energy generators fill my ears with a delayed hum—and I can hear my Alfr mage switch over Display 1's scope to show some other view.

“Ground force is away,” Councilor Yri states, from my left. I wonder if he thinks he's being honored, being stationed here at Odin-King's side. He's an unimportant fifth-millennial from an unimportant family, bald and snub-nosed, more gizzard than face; I don't remember what honors he might have earned when Bor still reigned over an empire seven realms strong, but he's sure to have done something impressive to earn his red cape.

“ _Clear! Prince Frey, take your Vanir to_. . . .” Thor's voice booms from the blacked display.

“Ground is landed,” Councilor Yri tells the War Council, who likely have the same displays on similar divining scopes, which makes this update absolutely pointless. “Warded Legions One-through-Three proceeding to coordinates given by Princess Smirna. We are having technical issues with Display Four.”

My Alfr mage startles from his work sorting tracker data from the troops on Vorsgard, and helpfully switches on Thor-o-Vision. My not-brother's friendly smile makes me want to put a fist through his eye.

“ _Nibelung_ ,” Thor says. “ _Give alert at the first sign of Chitauri movement. They will have to bring the Tesseract to this point in order to open a world-gate_. _Do not let them pass_.”

“ _Don't waste stolen air worrying about my warriors._ ” The Dwarven King laughs like a rusting gate, from Display 7. “ _Your daddy only put you in command because you're his piss-pants little son. Or so your mother claims_.”

I smile. That makes everything better.

“ _Perimeter secure_ ,” Prince Frey of Vanaheim reports.

“Drop point perimeter secure.” Lord Aumdyn says. “Fleet, you are clear for dark energy transport.”

“Fleet is ready,” Tyr states.

“Proceed.” I close my eyes.

With the Black Tower under quarantine, we have to rely on Alfr mages to work our generators. There's a moment's pause—then the generators' hum reverberates through the palace. I open my eyes to see my own false face sneering at me from the opaque glass.

“Fleet is at destination,” Yri says.

“Good.” I force my attention to the divining scopes. “Thor, from fleet sensors I'm seeing a tunnel five kilometers northeast. No enemy movement above ground. A fast march through a salt pan will get you to it in—”

The bifrost goes off, tearing apart the pre-dawn through my windows with a razor beam blast of color. For half an instant the opaque glass light up—and then there's solid gray outside as darkness descends once more.

What the hell was that?

“— _Father?_ ” Thor is saying.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” Lord Aumdyn cuts in. “We did not hear the last part. My readings suggest a march through that terrain will put Legions One-through-Three at target in just under an hour.”

The bifrost goes off again, launching another rainbow between realms.

“Is this what your scopes are reading?” Aumdyn presses. “Your Majesty?”

I chew my lower lip, staring at the window. “The bifrost is activating. Mage?”

“I am here, Odin-King.” Yes he is; he's watching the legions like it's a _Sigurd_ show, all wide-eyes and open mouth.

“Open a connection to the Observatory,” I say, while Aumdyn and Thor fall silent. “What is Heimdall up to?”

The Alfr boy scrambles to make this happen.

Another flash from the bifrost.

“It is here, Odin-King.” The mage pushes a voice pad into my left hand.

“Is this him?” I speak into the pad: “Heimdall? Heimdall, what is going on out there?”

The bifrost discharges a forth time.

“In the name of I who am Odin Borson, Allfather and High King,” I say, “Heimdall, you will answer me.”

Heimdall is not responding.

A chill slithers up my spine. That can't mean anything good. And in the prelude to a massive troop deployment . . ?

I drop the pad. “Lord War Leader?”

“Sire?”

“Send an Einherjar warband to the Rainbow Bridge. Someone is at the Observatory without royal permission.”

_Spy_.

My heart lurches backward. If Heimdall has been incapacitated, he's been incapacitated so that someone can use the bifrost without authorization. _What is being brought into Asgard without authorization?_ “Make that _all_ Einherjar warbands,” I command. “Sound alarm. We have multiple intruders on foot—four bursts from the bifrost will give up maximum thirty-two persons. Treat as thirty-two hostile enemies on foot.”

“ _What?_ ” Thor snaps.

“Sir!” Yri grips my left shoulder. “If I may. There cannot be an intrusion. Only the Guardian or the royal family knows what runes will activate the bifrost.”

“Obviously not.”

The War Council bellows orders across its speaker.

I tell my Alfr mage, “Recast a divining scope to give me a view of the Bridge. Let's make it—oh, Display Number Four.”

“But the Prince—” Yri says.

“Fetch me Gungnir,” I command, to shut him up. “Bring that to my possession. And get the Queen to safety.”

He races for the door.

“ _Odin_ ,” Tyr says. “ _You don't think you are acting with too much haste?_ ”

Odin is acting in haste. _Loki_ smells a plot.

It's an electric feeling that runs deeper than my bones. Little details that add up into bigger details, until a sense of _wrongness_ is so pervasive that I feel it looming even if I can't see it just yet. Possibly because I am a backstabbing bastard I can't help but see a pattern that might otherwise look almost innocuous.

_Almost_ but not quite. It's the _almost_ that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

If it were _me_ . . .

What would _my_ game be? Who would I try to slip into the city? Not Chitauri. The Other? No, that isn't its game. Jotunheim? That makes no sense at all, unless someone's been making friends at the same time I have. But if the Other could contact Jotunheim, it could get the Tesseract off Vorsgard. Smirna says it hasn't, so . . . it hasn't.

Yri is right, however much I am loath to admit. No one but the royal family and Heimdall could get the bifrost working.

Has someone put Heimdall under mind control?

Display 4 refocuses on the the Bridge. It's empty. At least—it _looks_ empty.

“Scan all light spectrums,” I order. My Alfr mage lashes spells at the scope. Still nothing.

“Scan for thaumic signature,” I say.

Nothing. There is nobody is on the Bridge.

“Sire,” Lord Aumdyn cuts in. “The Einherjar Cheiftain reports that our wall is secure. No persons have entered Asgard.”

That isn't right. I don't understand. The bifrost illegally discharged four times and Heimdall is not responding. Every warped fiber of my being—

There is another possibility.

It's not one I'd like to consider. Once I think of it, I can't shake it loose.

Blood rushes my head. I put a hand flat on Odin's solarium bookshelf to keep myself upright. With my other hand, I gently, carefully, switch off my speaker's pickup. A tremor tries to creep up my arm. “Mage?”

“I am here, Odin-King?”

I wet my lips. “Is that a question or a statement?”

“I am here, Odin-King.”

He is. A slender, dark-skinned youth in an Alfr cloth-of-gold dress. He looks real. He looks solid. He's casting a shadow on Odin's bookshelf, which is good enough for now.

I make myself smile. “Did you see the bifrost—a multicolored light—flash through the window, over there—just now?”

“Yes, Odin-King.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, Odin-King. You said it true: four times.”

Then I'm not hallucinating. The bifrost discharged, but nobody came through.

I don't know if I ought to be terrified, or relieved.

I switch on my pickup. “Check the Observatory.”

“En route,” Lord Aumdyn says.

“ _What is happening_?” Thor's voice is muffled, coming through the council speaker where his tracker is still displayed.

“The bifrost made four unauthorized transports,” Svaldir says.

“ _What does this mean?_ ”

“We are not yet certain.”

Aumdyn raises his voice. “Sire, the Einherjar Cheiftain reports Lord Heimdall is unconscious. Uninjured otherwise, that he can tell.”

“ _So someone got past him to use the bifrost, but nobody came through_?” Thor demands.

“It could be a diversion,” Aumdyn says.

A diversion for what? What could it mean if nobody comes through?

I know. In an instant, I know.

Cold sweeps over me, rattling down my arms, through my chest, turning my knees to slush.

I grab for the speaker. “Recall the warriors,” I gasp. “Now.”

“ _Old friend, I advise against this_ ,” Tyr says. “ _If this is a diversion, it is a dangerous diversion. If we leave Vorsgard the Tesseract may be lost_.”

“ _Aumdyn!_ ” My voice climbs half an octave. I shove it down, into Odin's range. “Recall our fleet. Recall all warriors.”

“ _Father, what makes you say this?_ ”

“What of the Tesseract?” Aumdyn demands.

“The Tesseract is already lost.” In the dead place in my head I can hear Asgard inhaling. Odin's solar is too close around me, too quiet. I scrub my hands over my jaw. “Thor, it's the bifrost. No one was coming through, someone was leaving. There's nobody on the Bridge now because someone got past our Guardian to _leave_. You can rig a tracker spell to smuggle messages from Asgard; the only reason anyone would bother to physically leave is if they were trying to escape. No, not escape—evacuate.”

There is a hellish pause.

“ _But what makes you think—?_ ” Tyr begins.

I snarl, “Why would anyone bother evacuating the city now when it would be most noticeable? With the city on full Nine Damned military alert? What is so dire that someone wants to escape Asgard at all cost _right now? What do they know that we don't?_ ”

“Chieftain,” Aumdyn says. “I believe he is right.”

“ _Transport position_ ,” Thor and Tyr shout at the same time.

Aumdyn says, “Opening a channel to dark energy subchamber. Enchanters, target lock all fleet all ground personnel.”

Then he yells. It's a wordless, nameless curse.

“War Leader?” I snap.

Quiet. A shuddering exhale over the speaker cold and dark.

Cold seeps up my skin. “My lord?”

“ _Aumdyn!_ ” Tyr booms. “ _Speak! You worthless gold-plate shame of—_ ”

“They are gone,” Aumdyn says. His voice is halting, muzzy, childlike with wonder as was the Alfr boy's. “Oh, holy Fates. The enchanters. The dark energy subchamber is empty.”

I exhale in a rush. “Mage?”

“I am here, Odin-King.”

“Display Number Four to dark energy generators, would you?” And then all the little details add up, and understanding slots into place. Dark realization brings a rush like freefall. My fingers come unglued from their deathgrip on the speaker. The speaker slips free and crashes off Odin's floor. “Oh.” I'm a fool.

A twice-damned fool.

“Sire?”

I sigh. “ _Elegant_.”

Aumdyn curses again. “Searching area. No sign of our enchanters.”

There won't be any sign of our Alfr enchanters. I suspect they used the generates to evacuate the city shortly after Queen Daina's court did.

I sit down in Odin's high-backed chair. The Alfr boy refocuses Display 4 on the staging area's abandoned dark energy subchamber. A weird yellow shine coats the air above the generator rows, flickering at the edge of my vision.

My Alfr mage flaps an urgent hand on my shoulder. “Odin-King! Odin-King!”

“Yes?”

“That is magic, look. It is a residue from a spell for making illusions. The glow, yes?”

Is it? My magic is more sophisticated than that.

“Might be they are not gone,” the Alfr boy says.

Oh. Damn.

_What does it mean if the mages have hidden themselves to play with our generators?_

“The Einherjar are en route to the Black Tower,” Aumdyn says. “To summon Aesir mages.”

A hum rattles the palace.

“ _Father!_ ” Thor's still muffled coming through his display over the council speaker. “ _Section Three is gone!_ ”

“ _We are under attack?_ ”Tyr snaps.

“No sighting!” Aumdyn hisses at them. “I cannot confirm.”

“ _The Elves have vanished,_ ” Thor says.

My Alfr mage gasps.

A smile slices across my face. Of course they've vanished. Our 'missing' Alfr enchanters have just transported them back into the staging area, under cover of that illusion! “Lord Aumdyn? Change in plans.”

“I am listening.”

Another hum. The Alfr warriors are transported again, I suspect, from Asgard to Alfheim.

“Forget the Black Tower,” I say. “By the time you get Aesir magicians to the dark energy subchamber you will find the generators destroyed. Reroute all Einherjar to the city streets. We need to get the civilians inside the palace and raise the shields.”

“ _What in all of Helheim are you talking about?_ ” Tyr snarls.

Fates! Isn't it obvious? I shout, “In the name of your High King, last living son of Buri the First God, do as I command!”

“ _Odin—_ ”

“We are trying to contact Queen Daina and the Alfr princess,” Svaldir says in the background. “She needs to be made aware of what is happening on Vorsgard.”

“You won't find her,” I snap. “I expect they were the first through the bifrost.”

A null follows this. The speaker and the displays go silent once more. I can hear breathing from our warded legions on Vorsgard. Outside my windows the sky is still grey. I'm fizzing. My skin is full of ants. The solar's air thickens into a noose around my neck.

What did Smirna say?

— _Alfheim's loyalty was already assured before you sat down to speak with my mother_. Oh, Smirna. Lying, lovely Smirna. You always did like playing games by telling the truth. — _Our Queen might have played you otherwise_. . . .

A panicked shouting match picks up between Tyr, his War Leader, and the old men in the Council chamber. Thor is yelling at Prince Frey about retreat to the drop point. Thor is an idiot; there is no one in the subchamber now and I can see smoke rising from the generators.

My Alfr mage prods my elbow. He's about twelve, all arms and knees and an earnest, hopeful disposition. “Do you think our beloved Queen is all right?”

I give him a great big grin. “Don't worry. I'm sure she's fine.”

Armored footsteps clap the marble outside my solar. Four, five, six warrior by the sound of it. Their boots are almost noiseless. Elves.

“Have you done as I ask?” I prompt Aumdyn.

“All Einherjar warbands are redirected to the city,” he relents. “Allfather, should I sound the general alarm?”

“Yes. And don't bother me for a while. I'm about to be assassinated.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I had asked a question about whether the story would benefit from a romantic subplot. Question resolved. I've left this explanation as context so the following few comments don't sound completely insane.]


	19. Invasion, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually got such insightful comments yesterday that I'm happy to take their advice and close the voting as of now. Paper Tiger will remain ship-less. Thanks for your feedback! I'll delete my question so as not to prompt future responses. Now, on to the good stuff:

This is how the war begins:

The solar door swings open.

I switch off my speaker, cutting short Thor's yell.

“Forgive our intrusion, Your Majesty Odin-King,” says the lead warrior. He is broader across the shoulders than my not-brother, dressed in warded mail and leather. “Sir. Our spies on Vorsgard have given us false information. Our princess fears that there is to be an attack on Asgard. Please allow me to escort you to safety in your War Tower, where I will explain the situation as she has told me.”

_Clever_. This isn't Smirna's breed of lie. Whoever else has orchestrated this little charade is exactly along my wavelength; I understand every facet in her or his plan as if it is my own. They will escort me into the hall, surrounding me as guards: two ahead, two behind, two at my side. The dagger will come from the guard positioned behind me on my right. Thanks to his missing right eye Odin would have to turn around to face his attacker, which will leave him vulnerable to the warrior at his left. All the worse because the armor I'm wearing—Odin Allfather's personal fitted astrium armor—is, like its owner, an _illusion_.

I make the Allfather grunt his approval and say, with his most bullheaded sneer, “Princess Smirna is taking honors that do not belong to her. You will walk behind me as is suitable to your rank as off-worlders. I will not be seen brought to my own war council surrounded by Elves.” In other words, Please, please, please stab me in the kidney and don't catch on that I know what you're up to.

My assassins step back that I may climb to my feet. The young Alfr mage attaches himself to my right side in an ill-timed bid to make himself seem important; I shoo him away with a “You are dismissed. I have no more need for your services” and he sulks from the solar.

“Your Majesty?” their leader beckons for me to go on ahead, after the mage.

I brush my hands down Odin's supposed astrium armor and smooth his imaginary robes of office. I make sure to keep my expression annoyingly superior while I slip a hand behind my back and conjure six throwing knives.

The assassins wait for me to make myself presentable for my ancestors.

They aren't going to wait for the hall. Little lines of tension in smooth handsome faces, watchful eyes—the way none shift on his or her feet or break close quarters—tell me I'm never going to make that far.

“Thank you,” I say, when I have shoved the knives up my sleeves. I incline my head.

Hand still extended toward the door, the lead warrior says nothing in response.

I feel nothing. My skin is numb. My thoughts evaporate.

I step for the door on feet lighter than air. Two steps brings me even with him. Three, and I've entered their circle. Four, I'm surrounded. I sense movement behind and to my right, where Odin is blind. Five, I flip sideways as a blow smashes the place where my head was.

The Lead Warrior shouts alarm. His assassins draw arms: three axes, two daggers, and a mace. They come for me all at once. I conjure seven doubles and palm a throwing knife as magic sears the fizzing air.

The Alfr press forward, killing my clones. An ax splits an illusion's head bare inches from my own skull, missing me by chance. I duck on reflex. The clones cover for me as I sight the warrior opposite through this bristling charade and let fly. My strike takes the Alfr in his throat, above his coif.

A boot swipes the back of my knees. When the floor punches my ribs I roll left, hear another ax split the marble floor—and am hefted to my feet by my neck and tossed into the bookshelf. My grasping fingers snag a heavy bookspine.

I slam the leather-bound tome into an oncoming dagger, knocking the Alfr's arm askew. A follow-up swing crushes his nose. I hear bones pop, blood or spittle spurts across my cheek. Freed, I bash the ax head aside and put a knife in its owner. A kick to the spine sends me down again. I catch myself on my forearms, kick onto my side in time to get a mace in my teeth.

My vision turns yellow. White heat flowers in my jaw. My throat fills with copper.

Unable to see past spinning stars and tears, I fling illusionary knives at the warriors above me. I feel a space open up; put both heels in Mace's armored stomach and use the rebound to roll upright.

The solar sways.

Wet warmth pools down my chin, dribbles onto my hands.

The big leader advances on me with his ax glowing sulfurous orange by the scopes' witchlight. I draw up more clones—five, seven, twelve—to separate us. The clones rush them, screaming; he tears through my illusions in a lazy swat.

Elves are used to magic.

The blood in my throat turns to ice.

I fling my remaining knives.

The ax flips around to send them scattering in all directions.

I conjure more as the assassins block me in—I step backward and crack my shoulder in a corner between wall and window.

Trapped.

The ax swings black.

There is no parting jab, no victory speech; my death is to be as unfeeling and unmourned as the unwanted infant left to die in Jotunheim's wastes.

Dishonor. Again, dishonor. Insane mirth bubbles up from my warped soul.

A last dam breaks; I turn myself invisible and drop.

The ax passes over my head.

The assassins falter, hesitating. What _irredeemable honorless coward_ makes himself invisible during a fight? Valhalla awaits they who die with sword in hand. What _creature_ am I?

A murderer. A madman. Yes, and a coward.

I catch the Alfr leader in his fancy chestplate. Warded steel shatters my magic where it touches, but I'm already bringing a knife up and let momentum carry me forward as auroras burn my arms back into visibility and then Odin's ornate sleeves into my unlovely, bloodstained biosuit. My knife explodes into the Elf's throat. I twist and wrench left. Gold-white ichor flows down the warded armor to join the red spattering my unwrinkling hands.

A blow to the shoulder knocks me around. Mace-Wielder puts his weapon through my stomach, then cracks my jaw when I double over. The solar flickers at the end of a long green-rimed tube. The floor slops under my rubbery feet.

Consciousness sails away. I'm drowning.

Pain-slowed moments fuse into seconds, which pass by in a quiet haze. When my body heals enough that the viper nest wreathing my insides melts to ordinary sick pain, I open my eyes. The four remaining assassins have not advanced.

“ _You_.” Mace-Wielder lower his weapon. “ _When_?”

Something wriggles back into place inside my abdomen. Wetness surges up my throat. I spit out bloody bile.

The Alfr examines me from a distance, not unkindly. “I am sorry, Your Majesty. You should have said.” He gives me a nod, and turns on his heel. The other follows.

I rock my head sideways against the cold soothing window. Sunrise is a yellow blister on the horizon. Dark buildings give me enough reflection yet that I can see myself mirrored in the glass: here is the thing under my Odin-Mask, a Nameless Aesir-shape covered in its own blood.

Your Majesty? Loki?

I can't risk being found.

I push away from the window and prowl into the corridor. My strength returns by increments; by the time I've spotted the assassins heading right I am able to walk without limping. None are facing me. I bury knives in their skulls.

Once I recover my weapons from the Alfr in the corridor and in Odin's solar, I recast my Odin-Mask and take the stairs to the royal landing. From there I can check on Frigga and make my way to the War Council. We need to move fast.

Outside in the landing I can hear the general alarm. Deep ringing bells echo a terrible pulse through the city. Below, the thousands who live in Asgard flee for the palace. Above, morning broils in under a low cloudbank—and silhouetted against the clouds—

My legs stop working. I stagger to a stop on the marble landing, cold from my scalp to my heels.

The entire Chitauri fleet spreads out in attack formation.

What passes next is grand scale carnage. The palace shield raises minutes after I reach the war council, but I have a front-row view through the window as the city trapped outside face a Ragnarok unaided. Asgard's weightless domes, glittering spires, and myriad buildings come crashing down in smoke and shrapnel under the Leviathans. Those who are not crushed are picked off by the Chitauri.

This is New York.

This is New York, without the Avengers.

_Let every old man, woman, and child pick up swords_ , Odin would say to those who have reached the palace. _Let your sons, husbands, fathers not return to find you murdered like goats in pen._ The shield won't hold forever.

“Lord Aumdyn,” I command, instead, “we need our dark energy generators back to working order.”

“ _What are you bringing into Asgard?_ ” Thor almost spits through his display.

I give his one-way image a blank look.

Aumdyn says, “Your Majesty—”

“Did you or did you not hear me?” I demand. “Drop the Black Tower's quarantine. Summon Ilda and any other magicians familiar with the generators. _Now_.” The spy will have evacuated with Smirna's court. The Black Tower is not a security leak any more.

Thor has a fit while my War Leader snaps orders. “ _What are you bringing into Asgard?_ ”

“ _You_ , idiot! In case you haven't noticed, the Elves turned on us the moment their information lured every damn warrior in Asgard away from the city. We are completely defenseless!”

“ _Not defenseless_ ,” Tyr chides. “ _Odin, my blood-brother, you are not yourself today. Have you arms left? And living hearts to wield them?_ ”

Suicide. Death by valor.

The old men in Red Council grimly set their jaws. Lord Aumdyn bows his head.

“When the shield comes down,” I say, slowly, “we will hold off the Chitauri for as long as we can. We must buy time for the magicians to get our generators working. Thor, I want the fleet and ground forces in position for teleportation.”

“ _Any deaths in Asgard_ ,” Thor growls, “ _I will hold you to as personally responsible and hunt you like a beast_.”

Blood rushes from my head.

He knows.

If I cut the feed he will tell Tyr who I am. If I don't cut the feed, he'll tell the council chamber.

There's nothing else for it.

I adopt a smirk that tastes like bile and force my voice into mild amusement. “Are you referring to the mortal? Because she is here with me now.”

Wordless rage echoes across his tracker.

I say, “I suggest you and I concentrate on saving our city, and worry about outing truths after I recall your army. I need you to smash the Chitauri for me; incidentally, they want me dead as well. So keep quiet, hang tight, and you and your fragile lover will be reunited soon enough.”

Thor is garish white. He's quivering but—thank the Nine—mute.

I order a court attendant in sotto voice, “Please find the mortal woman Jane Foster and bring her to this council chamber.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Aumdyn says, “Black Tower en route to dark energy subchamber.”

“Good. Reroute two Einherjar warbands to provide escort. I don't expect the Elves left any nasty surprises in—”

Aumdyn is shaking his head. “Sir. The Einherjar were outside when I raised the shield. ”

The loss is a physical blow, driving breath from my lungs. Asgard's elite guards are no more. “Who have I got left? _Royal_ guards. Send Nindr's warband and the men who were stationed at the weapons vault—where have they been transferred?”

“Vorsgard,” Aumdyn says.

Of course. The vault guards had an honor debt to pay.

“Nindr will escort the sorceresses,” I command. “This is our first priority.”

Aumdyn mutters his respects and busies himself relaying my will.

“Sir,” Councilor Yri is returned, and with him the True Spear Gungnir. I take the King's weapon in both hands, aware that this is likely the last time I will hold it. The enchanted metal is smooth. Cold. Beautiful. Important. I wish I had time to relish the occasion.

“Our Queen is in the royal suite,” Yri tells me.

I say, “How many total inside the shield?”

“I have not heard.”

There are four million souls living in Asgard. Fifty thousand are safe on Vorsgard. The palace employs another three thousand. There are gates and emergency evacuation areas inside the shield, yes, but how many were reached in time?

Even if we'd had forewarning, the areas cannot hold everyone.

I pace to Lord Aumdyn's side. The grisly images on his scopes blare out rubble lacerated with smoke and plasma fire. “How many are evacuated under the shield?” I don't recognize my own voice: it's too young.

Aumdyn scrabbles at his instruments.

My eye is caught by the display at my right, where people stagger from a collapsed house. They are shot down in the street. Above that, a Leviathan winds unchecked through the market district. Its habrium armor slices rock, toppling buildings and towers. Above _that_ , people hide under a collapsed bridge. Dust coats the view in a brown swamp. The people have shirts over their faces.

Lord Aumdyn explodes to his feet and shoves his instruments away.

“How many—?”

He bangs a fist on his desk. His long gold-wrapped hair hangs around his face in limp ringlets. When he sags into his chair, his knuckles leave bloody trails on the hardwood.

“My lord?”

Aumdyn glances sideways at me.

“ _How many are inside the shield?_ ” Tyr echoes.

“Thirty-five hundred,” Aumdyn says, face in his hands. “Counting the palace staff and officials.”

The top left display shows our palace shield burning bright. The Leviathans circle it, ripping out the surrounding city without trying to breach the forcefield. Yet.

Take the head, and the beast dies.

The Leviathans' armor will corrupt the forcefield. Enough corruption and we'll have to lower the shield ourselves or suffer its collapse and the negative surge that will accompany a magical implosion. Lethal. Unless we can fix the generators before that happens, this is how the war will end: Asgard's palace shattering with us inside.

What are they waiting for?

And just like that, my view of the picture inverts itself. Lights pop behind my eyes. The Red Chamber is too bright. Aumdyn is too close, the displays too garish and too fluid.

“ _Cowards_ ,” Aumdyn seethes. “Will they spare the palace? Do they fear our shield?”

I say, “The two Leviathans are not circling us for attack. They are keeping a perimeter to isolate the city. They can afford to save us for last, because the goal is not the palace. This is genocide.”

“Fates defend us,” Aumdyn sputters.

Thor hisses, “ _Show me. Reverse a divining scope. Let me see what is happening_.”

We need to get more people inside the shield. The spy told Smirna how to hit Asgard, what defenses we had, how to annihilate the population. They knew we would lead the resistance against Thanos, so they wanted to crush us before the war began. I say, “There is a tunnel that leads from the palace to the city.”

“ _No!_ ” Thor says. “ _He is—_ ”

I switch off the audio pickup on his feed.

“Send me a warband from the Black Tower Guard,” I command. “I will get as many people as I can. In the meantime, pull everyone inside to a defensible location. Arm—”

“ _Sire_ ,” Tyr interrupts. “ _You are needed in the War Council Chamber_.”

“This tunnel is known only to the royal family.” Gungnir is slippery in my hands. “It must be me. Lord Aumdyn, assign me as many guards as you can. Don't pull from Nindr's men. As soon as those generators are working I need you to recall our army from Vorsgard. Arm the populace. Position nonessential persons at weak points in the palace. If the shield comes down before we have a fleet, they will be the last barrier between you and the Chitauri.”

“Yes, sir.” Aumdyn salutes.

“Thor,” I add, “listen to me. You are in charge. When I turn on your pickup, you will command Overwatch. Lord Aumdyn, report to him. Keep him updated.”

It's a hell of a gamble. When I switch on his pickup, his first words could be _Seize the imposture_. I'm betting my life I know Thor well enough that he won't do it.

I open his feed.

Thor snarls, “ _Where is Jane Foster?_ ”

I resist smirking. “ _I_ don't know. I only sent for her after I told you I had her.” His image gnashes its teeth. I can hear a vessel pop. “Lord Aumdyn, when Lady Jane arrives you will act as her guardian. Protect her with your life until Prince Thor returns.”

Thor's color returns all at once. He's shaking with it, hands fisted at his side.

I flee the Council Chamber before my not-brother can make up his mind whether to have me killed. Whatever Thor does next my first goal is the same: get to my private suite and arm myself.

Heart thudding behind my teeth, I race through corridors vibrating with battle and alarm. My suite veers ahead. I burst through the doors and tear open the private compartment behind my abandoned dressing chamber and whisper a command. My battle armor affixes itself over the biosuit in shifting astrium plate. My battle helmet is waiting on its stand, but after debating I leave it behind. If my Odin-Mask fails, it's no good making myself more recognizable than I have to be. A solid blow to the head or another plasma blast and I'll be sliding across the ground as a wretch with the wrong face—better than being a wretch in Prince Loki's fanged helmet.

My invisible bag is behind the arms rack. I pry it free and pull out my Gauntlet. The gold _sighs_ over my right hand, slithering to encase my skin as soft and close as liquid. The plates weave together into a perfect fit. I flex my fingers and the Gauntlet moves with me, as if the creator meant this weapon just for Laufey's son. I cast an experimental Strike hex—

Nothing happens.

The enchanted gold prevents my right hand from casting magic. I suppose that's a good thing. Nothing like a nice backfire to make combat interesting.

Using my left, I cast an invisibility charm over the Gauntlet. The bag itself goes into my Place of Storing that I may conjure it at will.

My Black Tower warband meets me in Bor's Square. Lady Euyn salutes but I hold up a hand before she or her seven witches come any closer.

“Forgive me, my lady,” I say. “Are you being tracked by the Red Council?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Will you please ask Lord Aumdyn to give you connection to Prince Thor?” I give her a question to ask him, and wait while she and Aumdyn confer.

“ _What has happened?_ ” Thor grouses without emotion.

“I am requesting clarification of my orders,” Euyn says.

Thor hesitates for so long that I wonder if the connection has broken. “ . . . _What has he done?_ ”

“I wish to be sure that I understand my orders correctly.”

“ _You are to escort . . . the king . . ._ ” I hear him choke on that word, and rejoice, “ _. . . to the royal tunnel and assist evacuating the public to safety beneath the palace shield. You will alert me if . . . my father . . . does anything strange. The Chitauri posses weapons for mind-control_.” Ah, clever. Good for him.

Euyn thanks my not-brother.

So do I, in private.

Some horrible twenty minutes later we are outside the shield and I'm crouched behind fallen statue looking at open sky through a hole in the ground. Blood and dust coats my entire body in black paste. Six witches and eighteen evacuees crowd behind me, clinging to this damn toppled effigy of Odin with his spear to a kneeling Laufey's throat. There are twenty Chitauri warriors patrolling the cracked street between us and a rocky heap that used to be the public library.

The hole is hypnotic. There is nothing under Asgard but cold blue sky.

Vertigo seizes my legs.

I pull back from the fissure, breathing fast.

I say, “Aumdyn is reading fifty survivors somewhere inside. Lady Euyn, prepare to have your witches cast another Seek spell when we have reached the gates. All the rest of you—” the battered, trembling evacuees— “stay here. Lie down and pretend to be dead. Lady Euyn, can your witches make an illusion that they are covered with gore?” I'd rather make them invisible, but I'm guessing the sorceresses haven't started dabbling in black magic since my suicide. I don't dare cast any magic myself—when this is over I will have to research how to change my aura's color.

“Your majesty?” says a grubby, bloodstained boy while his fellow survivors make friends with the street. “I would be honored to go with you.”

He looks about seventeen, toned from a few years in War Academy that his parents may have sold themselves into thralldom to afford.

I conjure an extra throwing knife. What the hell. “You may. Take this and stay behind me. My Lady, you will lead three witches to the east entrance and check the upper level while I and—What is your name?” the boy spits it out in a rush— “Feggvinn son of Vauleinn take the west and search the ground level. Go now. We will follow when you are clear.” We leave two witches to protect the others. Once the four are gone and the two have their backs to us, I cast invisibility spells upon Feggvinn and I.

We reach the library without problem. The stone door is buried behind a neighboring building's fallen rooftop, which requires a silencing spell and our combined strength to clear. Inside, the air is choking. Dust and dirt have crammed every cracked surface, filling the collapsed walls with scattered rubble and loose pages. Airborne particles spiral around us thick as soup. Two filtering charms solve that. Ahead, the particles sway left through the ruins—a tattle-tale wake from someone else's passage.

I drop our invisibility, in case we find survivors. I tighten my grip on Gungnir, in case we don't.

Turning left leads us to an immense spiral staircase. Torn wall-prints shadow the ascent with illustrations from famous historical moments but, while creeping through a half-light with a one-sided war shaking the ground outside the glorious Conquest looks like fear and murder. The staircase wall is littered with deep alcoves, each a glassed-off diorama that is spiteful for its loving worship of all things victorious. What mockery.

I'm almost to the second landing when Feggvinn calls out, “Sire!”

A plasma bolt lances from the diorama to his left. The bolt sears into his right side, sending Feggvin backward to smash his head on the steps. I race after him, and reach him at the same time the ground jerks sideways.

The stairs smack my knees so hard I gag. I grab the rail for support before I can fly from the edge. Feggvinn rolls away, leaving red burned into the granite. I cling to Gungnir for everything my life isn't worth while the rail twists under my hands like a living serpent. A bone-cracking roar fills my skull. The library jitters in its broken seams. Glass shatters. The dioramas explode. I cast a shield over Feggvinn and myself as glass rips past.

The shaking stops. I stagger upright.

Another plasma bolt sprays from the alcove. I deflect with Gungnir and send an energy blast in return. Orange fire lights up the diorama into a heinous devils' sabbath, but amongst the distorted silhouettes is a skull-like reptilian face. The Chitauri sights on my head.

Pure heat slicks my limbs.

It pulls the trigger. I shift my grip, step left and bat aside its volley. Step forward, block. Step, parry. Step. It sees me coming and so will the others but I don't give a damn. Plasma ricochets in blazing light. Gungnir sings in my hands as I draw back, grip the spear's hindmost end, and smash the creature to the floor. A followthrough strike splits its neck. I trigger a second energy blast—

Blood soaks my legs.

I return to the stairs with a little more of me than I had before.

Feggvinn is on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest. Vomit pools under his head. His breathing a deep, gasping race for air. I ease down beside him, checking his pulse and his injuries. His shirt is burned away. His right side is blistered with healing scar tissue, vaporized into furrows along his abdomen. He opens his eyes.

“I think . . . think . . .” the child stares at nothing. His mouth quivers. “ _I'm dying_.”

“Stay flat.” I unfasten Odin's cape and tuck it around him. Ancient memory flutters in my chest. I don't want to think about my farm.

Feggvinn's breathing hitches. “I don't want to die.” He sounds ten years younger than he is.

I enchant the cape to produce heat, pat his shoulder. Wipe the hair from his eyes. His forehead is clammy. “Good. You're not dying. You're in shock. Do you remember when War Academy told you about shock? They like to lecture in between all that more interesting fighting, don't they. Here, this will keep you warm. Stay on your side in case you feel sick again. I will return in a few minutes and then we will go back to the palace. Have you ever been to the palace? It's really something to see. There are halls as big as War Academy's training field. Imagine that. Will you do me a favor? Can you tell me what color your eyes are? Feggvinn? What color are your eyes?”

“Grey?” he whines.

“There. See? You're all right.” In the same calm, nonchalant tone I say, “Now . . . can you tell me if you are left- or right-handed?”

“Right?”

I make sure my expression is empty, and give the cape a final check. “I'll be back soon. You won't even notice I'm gone. Then we'll find your parents, sound good?”

There are footsteps on the stairs above me. I conjure a shield over my ward and pick up Gungnir, feeling my pulse accelerate into a single un-Aesir burn. Sleepless nights and a hijacked nervous system make a switch in my brain from cowering to trembling bloodlust. A grin almost wrenches my face in half. My dry lower lip tears.

The Chitauri don't speak.

I point Gungnir at them. “I am going to name _all_ of you. You all have names, because I say so. _All_. _All_ of you.” This is the most terrible insult I can imagine. I almost can't get the words out through the grin. My face is locked tight.

I charge up the stairs as they open fire.

Gungnir deflects. What Gungnir can't deflect I catch and toss aside with crackling green flames. I flip Gungnir into my left hand and aim my right—with the Gauntlet—at the swarm.

Nothing happens.

I dodge a shot that would have burst my right leg. I redirect power into my right hand. The Gauntlet does not sweep them aside. I flail my fingers. The swarm doesn't implode or turn into incontinent kittens. I wave my arm.

I can't get the Gauntlet to work.

The Chitauri spread out, moving to shoot me from too many angles to deflect at once. I clone Odin and use his cover to make myself invisible. While the swarm annihilates my clones into green auroras, I leap the remaining stairs to land behind them on the third story. The granite cracks under my boots. The Chitauri nearest to me wheel and fire at the sound. I put my spear through its chestplate.

“Ulif,” I say. I jerk Gungnir free and knock the Chitauri's rifle aside while it staggers. There's one on my right whose aim is on target—I conjure an Odin clone behind it and snick the spearhead through its helmet when it turns. “Ithir.” _Fjall_ I strike down with an overhead swing. I sweep _Bannhik's_ legs out from under it and fire an energy blast into its faceplate, flip sideways and back to avoid being shot by six targeted bolts and roll aside after lancing Fjall. I conjure another clone to grapple with _Svarthifar_ , who shoots _Aieghur_ by mistake when the clone dissolves. Oops. No hard feelings, right?

The Chitauri learn from that mistake too fast for my liking. As one they holster their rifles in exchange for edged weapons. The fight continues with a more intricate dance. I aim for soft tissue and use my throwing knives when I can; being surrounded by a circular hand-to-hand brigade is the exact opposite of being surrounded by a circular firing squad.

By sheer luck a Chitauri blade sinks into my right arm, above the vambrace. My invisibility evaporates in green. I ball up my right fist and punch the Chitauri with the worthless Gauntlet. A knife plows into my ribs and is turned aside by my armor, under Odin's illusionary armor. The swarm closes.

Sharp white pain rips into my right thigh. I lash out with Gungir, trying to regain space. Many hands with many cutting things grab for me, wrench me around. They won't let go. If they release me to draw firearms I will hide in my invisibility, so they don't let go.

Hands grab my hair—my real hair under two illusions. I drop Gungnir to grab my knives; the spear and my magic is useless this close. I beat aside a Chitauri trying to cut my throat and return the favor. Blades push through my clothing, hunting for places where there is not protective astrium. Many eyes watch me with depthless intent. My bronzed armor shields my ribcage from all sides but there are gaps over my pectorals—a dagger plunges in and a supernova goes off in my

—They've put me back in my cell, I notice. I'm not sure how long I've been lying here on my side. Long enough that my right arm is numb and I've got those achey pricklings in my fingertips. I can't remember when that started. I roll onto my back and wait for feeling return.

I laugh. What am I _doing_?

It's hilarious. I'm an idiot. I am so so _foolish_.

I tip myself onto my side again, trying to fall so that I can either go back to killing my arm or killing the nerves, and either way that's going to turn out in my favor. I don't know if _they_ know that I can hurt myself like this. It's worth a shot.

I don't want to _be_ here any more.

Make this go away. I'm in Asgard. I'm _really_ in Asgard. Just slip away. It's so close I can taste it, just through the black on the other side of the veil in my head, and I can be back and none of this has to

—Pain radiates through my core in a long mind-shattering scream. I feel myself returning before I can _see_ it. I drop my knife to pull the dagger from my chest, and put it through the creature's left eye. When vision surfaces all the way I'm looking out through a black tunnel at a dozen Chitauri.

The ground lurches under my feet. The creatures and I stagger as another oppressive roar eviscerates my ears. The sound is so massive I can feel it passing through me in great crushing waves, trying to shaking me from the realm. Debris plunges from the broken ceiling. I drag an arm over my face as stone crashes around us. A few Chitauri scream. The floor skitters, leaps, smashes me down too and I scrabble to protect my head. My stomach inverts. Equilibrium reorients to some nauseous Helheim outside my body and I'm rolling, scraping my bare face and bruising ribs inside armor and granite. I hear Gungnir _clan! clang!_ down the stairs. I open my eyes to find the entire world tilting before me.

I punch my Gauntleted fingers through the floor.

I slam to a stop, lying flat on my chest on a surface that is neither wall or ground. My wounds snarl black pain. I open my eyes but some horrible angle dizzies my head. I realize I'm trying to look down horizontal stairs. Bile surges up my throat. I gulp wetly. Squeeze my eyes shut until I can look again without getting sick.

Dust and rock fountain past. The filtering charm gives me a clear bubble around my face; I hear rough gagging above and to my right.

_Svarthifar_. Possibly. I can't tell them apart.

The Chitauri buries its ugly head in its arms. It's wrapped itself around the railing, making little choking sounds as the public library oozes over us. It's lost its rifle and its knife. It's defenseless, a sad sack of blood and bone, huddled against a cosmos gone mad.

I sling my free hand up to grip my personal handhold, and grab the railing with my right. The wound hurts less, now, knitting itself together even as I pull myself up hand over hand. The Chitauri sees me too late—or, it sees me and there's not a damn thing it can do to save itself.

I throw out my right hand for Gungnir. The enchanted spear thumps against my palm. The Chitauri peers down at me through the wave of grit, rancid eyes glittering in the dull light. I watch it for a good long while, wanting to take as long as they did, memorizing every crackling thrill down my arm as a fresh lover. I want to steal every last emotion from its hideous face. I want to see it know how it feels to live without hope. I want to drop my Odin-Mask. I want it to know who's killed it.

But that would be suicide.

Throwing Gungnir is almost an afterthought compared with that—that beautiful, perfect moment before death seizes it.

I summon the spear back to my hand, and climb down the stairs to where Feggvinn is clinging to a headless diorama figure. I pick him up and we leave the demolished library to find Asgard's floating landmass in pieces across the muddy brown sky.

Above us, around us, under us: The pieces drift apart like old leaves in a current. The palace's orange shield gleams from an island ten miles away. Our island, the library's island, is one of the bigger pieces. Artificial gravity keeps ours intact. Others crumble as I watch.

The Black Tower Guard find me moments after. I've exited the library's remains. They help me into a shelter under Laufey-and-Odin's shadow. Some time later a palace chariot lands on the statue's far side, and the Guard, refugees, Feggvinn and I are gathered back under the palace's shield through the royal tunnel.

The generators are working, at last.

So are the Leviathans, at smashing the islands and breaking the shield.

Thor has ordered Lord Aumdyn to override my command at using the generators to summon our army and instead use them to evacuate the palace to Vanaheim, which has prompted a massive shouting match with Tyr. Odin's symbiote is threatening to remove titles and arrest any man who thinks to flee for his life rather than defend our fathers' homeland.

“ _Asgard is lost_ ,” Thor says. The space after his words reverberate in us, among us.

Tyr starts to protest.

Thor overrides him. “ _These Chitauri fight like Loki. They will not stop attacking the palace if we return to challenge them. They will keep us distracted with other enemies while they finish their cowardly, backhanded mission. Their goal is not to defeat us. Do you hear me, Chieftain? They want to destroy us and they are in position to do that._

_“Your Majesty_ ,” my not-brother snaps, which must be easier to say than _father_. “ _You know what I say is truth. Asgard must be evacuated_.”

“ _I will not run while the Unnamed Scourge's army takes the realm_ ,” Tyr shouts. “ _Odin—!_ ”

“I am with Thor,” I say. “He's right. Evacuate the palace to Vanaheim.”

This is how the war ends.

 


	20. Back of His Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the invasion's aftermath, Loki plots his next move.

“Why would the Elves betray us?” Lord Gymmod says, once Odin's evacuated privy council is crammed into a sweltering chamber that smells like sweat, dirt, rock, blood. We brought these smells with us. Vanaheim, as a whole, smells like wet fields.

The Vanir palace smells like cinders.

The wing Princess Freya has given us to use as a court smells like fear.

“Queen Daina has always been loyal to the King,” Svaldir agrees.

“She has not _always been loyal_ ,” I say. “The Elves fought _against_ Bor's empire. Along with the Fire Giants.”

“She gave an oath.” Gymmod's pink face darkens. “She signed a treaty.”

“And she revoked it.” Odin would sit at this table's head, spreading his weight in as resolute a manner as he can while glaring accusation at those assembled—so I do, too.

“Sir—”

I say, “Please tell me the High King's privy councilors are not so blind to the empire at large that they cannot see what has befallen us. Bor won seven realms through blood and death. Bor's rule is done. We are not what we once were. There are many who would side with our enemy simply for the joy of siding against us.”

“Not with _Thanos_.”

I squeeze my fists together. I'm tired of banging my head against this same argument. They are making the same mistake every fascist party does: they do not understand the enemy, and so they simultaneously both overestimate and underestimate their ability.

“This was a grave miscalculation,” Lord Aumdyn says. He's filling in as Cheiftain while Tyr and our whole army to the last man is stranded on Vorsgard. “It will not happen again. Our victory was stolen by cheating cowards who are unfit to draw breath. The other realms must be made aware what happens to they who are fit only to join the Nameless Monster's ranks. Alfheim must feel our wrath. No other realm would dare betray us after we destroy the Elves.”

There's angry shouting as every council member tries to agree louder than his neighbors.

What bothers _me_ more than the Alliance's impending disintegration, or that these fools can't see it coming, is that the real Odin Allfather has not returned. I thought he might when the Chitauri entered our atmosphere. Surely he sensed Asgard fall under attack? If he had to return to catch me playing king before I had my chance to escape with the Tesseract, I wanted him to find me swimming in Chitauri blood with rescued civilians at my back. Look, O King. Return to find Nameless the Hero. Look, look. I'm glorying in battle. I've put his favorite, noble Thor, in charge. How mighty and honorable.

It was calculated to precision. I did _my_ part. Where is _he_?

Another worry eats its tail in my head. True, the Elves had motive to stick us in the back. Something doesn't add up. I don't see a good angle. Sure, the Elves may have despised us, but to cast their lot in with Thanos? Trading the children of Bor the Bloody's empire for a soulless fiend who makes Bor look like a holiday clown?

Either Smirna knows something I don't, or Smirna's planning to betray Thanos just as I did. Those are the only options. If she knows something, I need to find out what it is. If she's planning to betray him, I need to find an opening and exploit it. Maybe with the Elves back on our side, I can save myself as part of a new empire headed by Alfheim.

Smirna, Queen Daina had said, was always rather fond of me. I could be king in truth.

If I could just _talk_ to Smirna . . .

. . . that would mean coming out of hiding, finding where she's gone because her people know better than to stay on Alfhiem without assurances that Asgard's not going to come smash them up in revenge . . . and potentially exposing myself to Thanos.

No thank you.

A shudder runs all the way from my scalp to my heels.

That's not a task I can accomplish on my own. I'd need a crowd of people to hide in, and only then if the crowd had a vested interest in keeping me alive. I haven't got a crowd of people with a vested interest in keeping me alive. Not me-Nameless, at any rate.

And I don't think Smirna is behind that business with the weapons vault, anyway. She's a political, not a military strategist. She curries favor from important people and leaves the tedious _hows_ and _whys_ to subordinates. _Someone_ came up with a brilliant plan to separate two men from my investigation force, corrupt them, and have them preform a delicate pantomime—urinating on a slain Chitauri, for Fates' sakes, to make the ruse absolutely believable—but it wasn't Smirna.

 _Someone_ opened a world-gate into and out from the weapons vault—that wasn't Smirna either. It does beg the question: why would that _Someone_ bother with a whole charade if they could get into the vault any time they wanted? What the hell am I looking at?

I used the Tesseract to pull open a gate to Midgard from afar. Possibly my adversary has done the same thing. Two world-gates in less than an hour is beyond my ability to conjure; whether my adversary has opened two world-gates _or_ triggered the Tesseract twice in ten minutes, I am dealing with a sorcerer who is far more powerful than I.

That's a scary thought.

—Which begs the question again: Why did this sorcerer not swipe the Tesseract themself? What are they hiding from? Or what were they doing while Od and Ilofn did their dirty work?

I have no idea. Possibly Smirna would know, but that puts me back to finding Smirna. And while I'm making a great big list of all the things Nameless doesn't know, might as well add: “Is this powerful sorcerer also my clever adversary? Or is my clever adversary Smirna's subordinate?

Now I've got a nice splitting headache. What else do I need to think about, besides getting away from this pointless Council meeting? Asgard is—

 _There_ is a hole in my chest I didn't expect to find.

I teeter on the edge of a deep dark ocean, suddenly empty inside except for the magnitude of this shape that is hostile and poisonous. I close that path down before I fall in. There's been too much of that shape already. I'm going to be sick if I let myself feel it.

Frigga, too, is on edge. When I can divorce myself from the High King's sycophantic band I find her haunting Vanaheim's airy palace in mourning white.

She looks at me strange, now.

She doesn't speak to me and I don't know what to say to her.

The survivors are even worse. Our refugee encampment occupies Prince Frey's easternmost courtyard, where the red Vanir mountains shadow all that's left of Asgard. The entire city's surviving population fits the Vanir palace and surrounding gardens with room to spare. The Eternal City is thirty-seven hundred strong, most of them women and old men. Thirty-seven hundred plus almost fifty thousand on Vorsgard. Most of the casualties were children.

Frigga has been to see our people many time since out escape. I can't bear to look at them. I hate their shocked-dumb faces. If I go to see them, I'll have to share their grief. Commiserate with the empty places at their makeshift tables. I don't want to grieve for any more children. There isn't anything I can say or do for them to make it better. I've had my life ripped apart so many times that this new tragedy is almost a relief. The lots are drawn and I've made it on top without being kicked into the dirt. Win.

* * *

“I'm certain Thor is all right,” I tell Frigga two evenings after our evacuation to her homeworld, when I catch her escaping our shared suite to spend the night with her sister Freya.

But Frigga doesn't smile.

I say, “Knowing Thor, he's probably leading a search to find a usable bifrost. If the Chitauri got one to work as quickly as they did, with the Alfr sorceresses' help,” I realize now, “it shouldn't be too difficult.”

“Thank you, Loki.” Her voice is hollow. She doesn't reach for me. I want her to hug me, but she won't. She leaves me to close the door in her wake.

An alien sun stripes my right arm and face through the open curtains. I cross the room to stand behind the curtains, where the Aesir camp can't see me without my Odin Mask.

We've effectively lost two realms, now: Alfheim and Nithavellir. The Dwarves will abandon our alliance like rats from a sinking ship. That leaves Asgard and Vanaheim against everyone else. What assets have we left? We have no arsenal except for what Thor and Tyr have with them. We have no great weapons thanks to Od and Ilofn—except for the Casket which I can't use without slitting my own throat or the Gauntlet which doesn't work.

Why the hell doesn't the Gauntlet work?

This question rescues me from my spiraling thoughts. I conjure the Gauntlet from my Place of Holding and turn it over in my hands. The weapon isn't cracked, or blighted. All six glittering stone wink from their sockets in the metal. I can't _see_ anything wrong with it. Unfortunately, I can't exactly take it to the smithies and _ask—_ I can just see that going splendidly.

And possibly—come to think of it, possibly—if there _is_ to be war with Thanos and his Chitauri . . . I should start carrying a failsafe. A small dagger that doesn't rely on conjuring. A phial of fast-acting poison. I will not be captured a second time.

I don the stupid Gauntlet and try to turn the wall into a wine fountain. I can do with a wine fountain, after chasing questions round in circles and planning to axe myself.

A wine fountain does not happen.

Nothing at all happens.

I give the Gauntlet a good shake, but that doesn't work either. I pull it off to cast a diagnostics spell. The readings . . . _look_ normal. Granted, technical magic isn't my strong suit, but I don't _see_ any snarled charge points. According to my feeble skills, everything should be in optimal condition.

I'm certain it doesn't work like Mjolnir, where to use it you have to be a pure noble warrior with a heart seven times larger than his brain and an unslakable thirst for combat in his worthy king's worthy name.

That would be ridiculous.

Although . . . _could_ the Gauntlet be enchanted to work only for the right sort? How could one even _define_ the rightsort for a weapon of infinite power? There is no right sort! That's the whole point! That would just be too convenient, making an ultimate weapon that can only be wielded by someone too noble to wield it. Who the hell would ever _do—_?

All right. _Me_. _I_ would make a supreme ultimate weapon and then enchant it so that only someone who doesn't want to use it can use it. That would be hilarious. But we're not talking about _me_ , we're talking about the Gauntlet's maker. This glittery toy wasn't designed to thumb its nose at the universe, it was designed to make its wearer a god.

* * *

When Lord Aumdyn pays me a visit early the next morning he sets a document mountain on the table by my elbow, by my untouched breakfast. It's a not-so-subtle hint. Odin-King is being pried from the hole he's burrowed into, that he may put on a good stoic face and lead the Aesir like he's supposed to. Hiding-time is over.

Trouble is, Frigga hasn't returned yet to give me the push and I'm not feeling up to impersonations today.

Aumdyn scowls and says, “Will you give consent that I am His Majesty's chief military adviser, for the duration of Tyr Hymirson's absence?”

Fates below. The universe has imploded but he's doing a valiant job of not noticing.

I incline my head. “Granted.”

He says, “With all due respect, Your Majesty, it is time to plan a counterstrike. The councils need to prepare for our next move and the people need to know that we are going to wring blood from every last Chitauri man, woman, and child. They want to hear how we will make them _pay_ for their insults.”

“What does the council propose?”

Aumdyn slaps his heels together. “They want to know whether our king can use his magic to return to Asgard with a small team from the Black Tower. The dark energy generators were damaged in evacuation, but if the bifrost remains intact we can reopen a connection to Vanaheim. Our warriors will return from Vorsgard's bifrost at any time. We need to be ready for their arrival. Asgard's bifrost is not a complete solution, but it will allow us to move from Vanaheim to Asgard without relying on Vanir spacecraft. So many weeks wasted in hyperspace puts us at disadvantage.”

We are already at disadvantage. Hyperspace or bifrost, neither compares to the Tesseract. Whichever one of our many enemies has the Tesseract—Smirna, Thanos, the Other Sorcerer, or my clever adversary—has already won the war. Whether they know that or not is a matter of observation. And politics. I'm betting that neither Smirna nor my clever adversary would give up that prize to Thanos, if either has maneuvered to snag the thing before he could. I'm not so certain about the Other Sorcerer, but I can't worry about her . . . or him. There are too many unknowns.

I say to Aumdyn, “Let's play a game! What does my new Chief Military Adviser think of our foe?”

Aumdyn clears his throat, evidently surprised. He shakes his head. “They are many but they are weak. Our warriors could—”

He's still on about Asgard. “Oh, come now. I'm not talking about the Chitauri. Does the son of a farmer have any insight to offer me about our _foe_? We were betrayed by someone who stood to gain an empire if they went along with us. Granted, Smirna and Thor hate each other . . . I suppose it may well be known that marriages have been built on less. The Elves had cause, Chieftain. This wasn't revenge. Or would _you_ bite off the hand trying to free you?”

He does not respond.

I roll my eyes. “Thanos offered them something. What was it? All they needed to do was _not_ betray us, and they would have adverted a war _and_ gained the High King's favor. Instead they chose the hard route. I'd be tempted to say the _worse_ route. Why?”

Aumdyn says, “Odin. What do you think of the Council's plan?”

“I think they're fools.”

His eyebrows raise.

I say, “The enemy's two steps ahead and Asgard's finest wants to play catch-up. I don't want to play catch-up, I want to get ahead.”

He declares, “Yes, we must marshal our forces to Asgard—”

“ _Who cares about Asgard?_ Think! What's next?” I've gone too far. I know I have as soon as the words leave my mouth, but once I've said them I can't take them back. I grimace.

“Who _cares_?” Aumdyn hisses. His fists clench.

“I didn't mean that. I only meant that the Chitauri are not our true enemy.”

Aumdyn's pretty face is a murderous. If I weren't his king he would break my teeth.

I slump in my chair. “I am sorry. But while our Council is plotting to retake Asgard, our foe has moved on to the next battlefield. This is not war between the Chitauri and Asgard, Chieftain. This is war between someone terrible and the entire cosmos. Asgard was the first casualty. So, _think_. What will our foe do now?”

Aumdyn says, “He does not care for war.”

“Who?”

My adviser has gone very still. I can hear him weighing each word with excruciating care. Not as if he's afraid of getting a wrong answer—as if he's afraid of making me _angry_. “Thanos. He does not care for war. He does not attack our army to bend our will to his, he wants to destroy us before we can even muster a fight. I hope you will forgive me for saying this, but . . . he is very like your late son.”

I sneer. “ _Thanos_? Don't be absurd.”

“Just because you choose not to hear it—”

“ _Thanos_ is a . . . never mind. No, I agree with you: our foe does not like war. He thinks in circles rather than straight lines. _Thanos_ is not our foe.”

“What does that mean?”

I explain about what shadow-hierarchy I've managed to cobble together. Smirna, the Other Sorcerer, and my clever adversary. I say, “Smirna would seek to destroy our army if it came to that, but I can't see her ordering the Chitauri to destroy _us_. Which means that Smirna went along with someone else's plan. _Someone_ promised Thanos the Tesseract in exchange for control of the Chitauri, and got Smirna to agree . . .”

Aumdyn says, “This person hopes to win glory under Thanos by leading their war?”

“Possibly. Or possibly he—although it doesn't have to be a he—wants to do what Loki did: trick Thanos into handing over a powerful weapon and then betray him. Now this person has the Tesseract. Will they use it to free Thanos? Or will they keep it for themself? That depends upon who my clever adversary is and what he wants.”

“We must find out who he is and what he wants.”

Hoorah! Top marks for the class. “ _Precisely_.” And I can't do that while I'm stuck playing Odin. And the moment I stop playing Odin, Aumdyn is going to assume command and drag us straight into a doomed march against an enemy who won't play by his rules.

I know Asgard like the back of my hand. The question is, how do I get away from Asgard without leaving them to die under an enemy who _also_ knows them like the back of his hand?

Aloud I say, “He—or _she_ —is clever and dishonest, attacking through betrayal and intellect. Surgical strikes rather than with numbers on a battlefield. He knows us. He knows how we think. And because he knows how we think, he knew what we would do and how to hit us to destroy us. Let's play another game. What would you do if you suddenly found yourself up against _Loki_?”

Aumdyn exhales slowly. “In this room?”

What. “No! You said yourself our foe is very much like him. He thinks like him. Like Loki thought, I mean.” I tap my fingers together, considering. “We've been going about this all wrong. We've been fighting a war against an enemy we don't know. But that's not really true, is it? We're fighting a war against someone who's _elegant_. Cunning. Manipulative. This isn't a battle of armies, this is a battle of illusions! Od and Ilofn, the Elves pretending to be our allies, getting lured away to Vorsgard when the Tesseract was already gone. You're fighting _Loki_.”

Aumdyn says, “You believe that the Nameless One was working with the Alfr court? They arranged this whole pretense to make us believe Thanos had returned?”

I spin around to face him, dragging the chair with me. “No. _That's_ intriguing, however. What do you mean by _pretense_ that Thanos has returned?”

Aumdyn sighs. “If we were truly up against the Nameless One, I would have to question whether Thanos is a threat at all. The Traitor might have set this plan in motion before his death. Theoretically he could have arranged for his arrest only so that he could give you _that_ _name_ to motivate your alliance with the Elves, to our doom. But—with the utmost of respect, Sire, I would not believe it of him. The Fatherless Wretch had too much pride. He would have wanted to be a part of the war.”

I smile. “Pride is a crutch. He learned to discard it.”

“Yes. For him, yes. But the Traitor would not have _sacrificed_ himself no matter what the gain. It is what poisoned his soul, I think. He loved nothing and no one except for himself.”

I lean back in my chair. “Chieftain, our people suffer. How shall I best help them?”

He can't notice the irony in my question, so he fumbles with what looks like an abrupt change in subject. The answer _You should leave your hiding-hole and go see_ is written all over his face. This is replaced with a stifled frown that tries not to say, _They need their King_. He finally hedges, perhaps more diplomatically, “They wait for justice.”

“As do I. Everything I've ever done has been for Asgard, and tell me: How does Asgard view me?”

Aumdyn bows his head. “You are King, Your Majesty.”

“I am king.”

Just until Thor comes back, and then I've got a choice to make. Do I want to play it safe and wait for Odin, or try to find Smirna?

There's no point in asking. I know me even better than I know Asgard.

 


	21. Reunion, part 1

**PAPER TIGER, PAPER SWORDS**

**BOOK TWO**

 

 

Five days later I am roused from an uneasy sleep by Sigg, who has adapted to Odin-King's nightmares by completely ignoring my orders that I am not to be disturbed in the morning.

Being cut open in my dreams becomes being shaken in reality. Sigg endures me trying to hex him with rather good sprits. He shouts Odin's name until I understand who he is and quit trying to set him on fire.

“Damn it.” I rub my chalky eyes. My nightgown is stuck to my skin in a damp, cloying mess. Thank the Fates Frigga is still sleeping elsewhere. My throat hurts.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Sigg pants. He's trembling.

“You know, I've killed men with magic. Try banging on the door next time, or throwing rocks.”

“Yes, Sire. No, Sire. I tried knocking and you did not wake.” His round young face softens into childish worry. “I beg your pardon. Has Her Majesty our Queen suggested a visit to Matron Eir—?”

“Her Majesty the Queen doesn't know.” I wipe dried tears from my face. I can still smell that reptilian stink. My skin is too hot, sticky and stretched out.

“Perhaps—” begins Odin's attendant.

“You are not to tell her.”

“ . . . Yes, sir. Sir? Princess Freya humbly requests the High King's presence. The Vanir witches have spotted a fleet entering the planet's orbit.”

I jolt from the damp sheets. “Chitauri?” A shiver ripples across my back.

Sigg says, “No, sir. A Dvergr fleet.”

“Dwarves?” Oh, Fates. It's the second attack. I scrub my face with both hands. “Has Chieftain Aumdyn sounded alarm? Tell Freya to launch all ground-to-orbit—”

He grabs my shoulder. His fingers burn.

I snatch my arm back. “Don't touch me!”

“Sire! They've hailed for landing. It's the warriors. Prince Thor is with them.”

For the second time in five minutes the universe collapses under my feet.

Thor? How? What are the Dwarves doing coming to Vanaheim?

I dress in a hurry, ignoring Sigg's protests that there is time yet before I must meet them in the great hall. I slip through the palace to the landing pad as Nibelung's shuttles touch down in fiery blasts. The Dvergr king disembarks, oozing smugness. Thor is right beside him, true enough, dressed for battle—and it isn't just Thor but Frigga's brother, Prince Frey, Lady Sif and the Idiots Three. Chieftain Tyr follows them, and there are hundreds more from the other ships. This is our _army_.

“Next time, you overgrown breadmonger,” Nibelung says as I and a dozen royal guards stride up to meet them, “you give me your bifrost's technology and I will get these suckling babes home to their mothers by supper.”

Jane Foster slips past my left side to throw her arms around Thor's neck. He squeezes her in a hug while the two parties—warriors and survivors—commingle in frantic desperation.

“The foul odor in your flagship,” Thor says as if he's been dealing with Dwarves his entire life, “makes me fear giving you a bifrost, least you spread your stink upon unsuspecting innocents.” He is not looking at Nibelung or Jane, however. His eyes mark my skull a target. He's carrying his hammer.

Thor looks much worse than I remember him. There are dark rings under his eyes. His skin is waxen. He is almost _gaunt_ , somehow, although one would be hard-pressed to ever use that word on him. He meets my gaze and says nothing. I force my attention to Nibelung. Thor won't do anything in public. If he meant to kill me outright he'd have tried already. “Why did you come back? I did not take you for that much of a fool.”

The Dvergr smiles. “I am like you, Odin-Asgard. I also do not go back on my word. You may call it pride.”

“Alfheim has sided with my enemy. As has Jotunheim. As will Muspelheim and Niflheim. Your pride would bind you to one king against five?”

“For now,” Nibelung agrees. He glances at our cohort, and says in an undertone, “You are being direct, so I will do it also. I confess to being somewhat in a corner, Odin Borson. If I chase Alfheim in turning my back upon you why should your enemy trust me, eh? But . . . if I follow you and, when you are defeated by these five kings against your one, your enemy will offer me a place if I too turn my back upon you. Then, and only then, I shall indeed turn my back to you.”

I salute the Dvergr king with a psychotic smile. “I am glad we are being honest. I think I like you better this way.” Then I call to Thor to head off impending disaster, “Your Highness, I would speak with you alone. I am certain you know about which subject.”

“Stay with my mother,” Thor orders his mortal. He trades her embrace for Frigga's, momentarily caught up by the happy reunion, but by the time I reach the empty palace steps he's on my trail. Frigga tries to go after us, but Thor waves her back with an angry scowl.

He follows me into an abandoned corridor. There, before I can say anything, he seizes me by the neck and hurtles me into a wall.

Plaster crunches. Dust showers my hair and face. “Have some sense!” I sputter. “My chamber is just ahead—”

“Drop the disguise!”

“Let us not fight in public!”

He charges me. I pivot to one side but he hooks my arm and smashes my head into the plaster. Twice. Three times. Four. Supernovas erupt in my skull. He leaves me dizzy, lets me slide to the floor, tangles one hand in my official robes and lets his weight crush the air from my lungs. Blind, dumb, I hold out an arm as his hammer raises. Blue sparks ignite around us.

“Turn back! I will smash your head!” Mjolnir is a double image above my bleeding face. “Do not make the mistake to think me jesting. Turn back, or I _will_ kill you.”

“Ergh, your breath smells like Dvergr scorpion bread.”

He shoves me. I claw at his arms, struggling to pry myself out from under him. Thor is much stronger than I. He keeps me in place with no effort at all. “Turn back.”

I drop my Odin Mask.

Thor's eyes get huge, although he had to know what he'd find. His teeth grind together. He reaches for my face—then lowers his hand.

I say, “How did you come to realize?”

“Elegant,” he grates out, like a curse. “When the Elves betrayed us. You are lucky none know you so well as I. Who but _Loki_ would ever praise his betrayer? Certainly not our father.”

“'Elegant'?” I don't remember blurting that into the audio pickup.

Thor grips my collar with his free hand. Not to hurt, but the threat is there that he can strangle me if he wants. “Where is our father?”

“You mean your father? I killed mine, or have you forgotten?”

He slams me into the floor. I feign a stunned slump to curl under his guard—then spring left, aiming for the gap beneath his left arm. His fist plows into my ribs as I roll upright and the hall spins on its axis. I twist to compensate, lurching away from him. He's got me by one shoulder. Through sheer accident my right fist collides with his left cheekbone hard enough to knock his head sideways. Thor swings with Mjolnir—

The cosmos sears white. I split my lip on the floor at his feet and shove myself upright, but my left arm collapses under me and I crack my forehead on the adjoining wall. Thor grabs my robes and drags me round onto my back. He kneels on my chest, hammer raised for a second blow.

I move to shove him off. My left arm won't obey. It's a dead heap at my side.

“Where is Father?” Thor rages.

“You broke my arm!” I yelp.

“Tell me, Loki, or I will break your skull.”

“That really hurts!”

He shakes me. “I loved you once. No longer. You—”

“I've hated you for centuries—”

“No more tricks!” The hammer cocks again, threatening to redecorate the corridor with my brains. “ _Where_ is Father?”

“In the Void. Verifying that I am not the worthless liar everyone thinks I am.” Fresh panic unrolls at the base of my throat following that assertion. At this point, honestly, I suspect Odin is dead.

Thor clenches his fist around my jaw and smashes me down again. He searches my bleeding face. I keep my expression impassive, although I'd like nothing better than to wipe that self-righteous look from his eyes.

 _What's the first rule? Play dead. You know how to survive a beating_.

Thor is silent. He's waiting to see if I'm going to start cackling or—I don't know—confess to his face that I've murdered his father in the King's own hall and taken the throne for laughs. Evil is as evil does, I suppose. When he does relax his grip, I shove his fist from my jaw with my good hand and make to sit up.

He pushes me down.

Thor's watchful expression sharpens to edged steel and something dark, unpleasant flickers in his eyes. “I thought you dead.”

“Funny how I keep disappointing you that way.”

His teeth grind. “Why have you done this?”

I sneer. “Someone had to lead Asgard, and since you'd rather play with your mortal wife than uphold your grandfather's empire—”

He squeezes my shoulders as if he can force me into a different shape by brute strength. His eyes are glassy with hatred. “You _stole_ Father's crown!”

“I offered you the throne and you refused it!”

“Liar!”

“After you left Svartalfheim and abandoned me to rot on the sand, I went to _get_ Father!” I make sure to use the term _Father_ but it takes effort. “I told him about Thanos. Yes. _I_ told Thanos I would retrieve the Tesseract for him, but I betrayed Thanos by ensuring your precious Avengers took me captive instead. Father went into the Void to see if I spoke truth. The next morning you sought an audience with the King. It was _I_ who gave you the throne.”

The hammer wavers. His breath hitches. “ _You_ gave me—”

“Your father granted me the hearing you did not, when you so proudly marched me home as a common criminal. Or didn't you notice that I had not been myself during our little adventure on Midgard?”

Thor's horror is too little, too late.

I bare my teeth in a ghoulish smile. “It seemed the things I had to say proved worthwhile, after all. Fancy that. In exchange for my warning about Thanos's plans Father allowed me to go into hiding, but he banished me forever from Asgard. Haha—I suppose that isn't such a great loss now, is it?”

Thor's fist explodes into my head. I feel my nose crunch. “You mock me with your blatant lies! You stole Father's image to bring horror upon our people!”

“ _Why should I do that?_ ” As bones and blood realign themselves I snarl, _“_ Think! For one Fates-damned moment in your life, _think_!”

Thor draws back his fist.

I hold up a hand for peace. “True, I was supposed to leave Svartalfheim and not come back to Asgard, but I—hem. I wanted to see my funeral. Call it a guilty pleasure. Don't tell me you've never wanted to see the entire realm sob over your valiant corpse? Nobody sobbed for me, as it turned out. I suppose I shouldn't be shocked.”

“No,” Thor growls.

 _That_ hurts.

“No, I have never wished to see anyone sob over my corpse,” he clarifies.

I shrug, one-armed. “It's not all it's cracked up to be. _You_ , though—” I add bitterly, “they would fling themselves to their deaths over the rimfall with you. Your funeral would be a national holiday to be mourned every year for all eternity. Because you're the precious perfect—”

“Enough of your blithering,” he says. “Where _is_ our king?”

“I told you. In the Void.”

“Why, now that Asgard is fallen?”

I curl my lip. “What's this, are we asking Nameless questions now? Has anybody bothered to ask my opinion on anything before I put on a different face?”

Thor's brow knits, as if now that I'm back he can close his eyes and send me away again. He is no longer poised to crack my head, which I suppose counts as a small victory, but he does not let me up. He sets his shoulders. “Does Mother know?”

“Of course she does. Do you think I could fool Mother? Even if I could, I shudder at the _trauma_ from keeping up his marital duties—”

“Then she has allowed you to rule while disguised as our father? I do not believe you.”

“The Queen has appointed me Councilor Regent,” I say. “The enemy will not forget that I cheated them on Midgard. For now, we are all in this together.”

Thor glares me in the eye.

I relent, and explain what has transpired between his mother and I.

Thor bows his head. His grip tightens. “If ever I have cause to think that you led Asgard into a trap, I will cut out your serpent's tongue and let it flap in the dirt while you watch.”

“If I had led you into a trap,” I point out, “I could have teleported from the city when the Chitauri fleet arrived. I would hardly have waited around days after for you to cut out my tongue. I've been enduring the privy council's wanting to return to Asgard. I think a good tongue-cutting would be less mind-bogglingly stupid. I gave a speech to the public, you know. I did a good job. People cheered.”

Thor's eyes darken but he releases me. His icy frown is still a hundred degrees from trusting, but he seems to weigh his words with great care before saying, “Loki, I do remember you warning us about the bifrost before Daina's legion disappeared. I apologize for asking but I must know. Did you steal the Casket of Ancient Winters? Chieftain Tyr believes that the Jotnar are working with Thanos, and I believe that he is correct, but you would have been on Asgard when the vault was plundered and considering your past dealings with that weapon . . .”

I put on a big cheery smile. “Yes, Thor. _I_ stole the Casket. Byleistr and Helblindi Laufeyson would both benefit from a deal with Thanos, but _I_ wanted to show my loyalty to the monsters who left me to die in the snow as an infant by stealing the damn thing for them. Gee, I hope they'll forget that I was the one who slew their father. Do you expect they'll forgive me?”

Thor reaches out to help me to my feet.

I can't let him get away that easy, not if I really were outraged. I accept the hand up, shove my palm into his sternum and force him backwards. Thor stumbles but keeps his footing. I push him again. “I have sacrificed more for Asgard than anyone! I have bled for our King! I would have died for our King. I would rather have killed myself than shame him.”

“You murdered hundreds of innocents in your quest for domination!” Thor hauls me aside. “That was not for Asgard. Loki serves Loki alone.”

“Truly? Than why have I stayed?”

He burns me with a flat stare. “You stayed because you knew I would kill you if you fled.” Then he strides forward, forcing me to walk backwards ahead of him or be run over. I move to dodge left. Thor blocks me in. “Now I will lock you in a cell, where you belong.”

I wheel around. “What would you do now—?”

He throws me ahead of him.

“Say you take command,” I protest, “just until our father returns. Vanaheim has offered us shelter—ouch—but it won't last.” I plant my feet. “The people are rattled, pushed to the brink—”

“ _Move_ , Loki.”

“—salivating for revenge.”

He shoves me with Mjolnir, which is unwarranted. I stagger. Thor grabs the back of my neck and pushes me onward.

I stammer, “What's left of the Red Council has been pressuring me to retake Asgard. Supplies have been sorted, but we have a sudden influx of warriors. Nibelung means to stand by our side—for now. _What's Thor-King's next move?_ ”

“Find the Chitauri.” Odin's son throws me around the corridor's bend and drags me toward the main hall by my collar. “The Chitauri will lead us to Thanos. Before you try bargaining for your worthless life with me, I will tell you that our _own_ witches have found evidence that the Chitauri have left Asgard and are heading for Jotunheim. I intend to present this to the Council.”

“ _Wrong_.”

“Be silent, Silvertongue!”

“I can't because my fate is tied up with yours. The Chitauri are _drones_ , you buffoon. They're not running the game and neither is Thanos. At least, he isn't _yet_.”

Thor drives me into a wall. A howl races up my healing left arm. He says, “And if I ask how you know this you will give me an explanation that makes perfect sense but ends with you crawling from your chains yet again. I think not.”

“You would doom all our people for the chance at punishing me? Oh, so noble. My heroic brother!”

“And I am certain you are upset on their behalf,” Thor hisses.

“No, I'm honored. All this time I've been trying to earn father's affection. All I needed to do was let you walk off a cliff and I'm the good son by comparison.”

He visibly wavers.

“The assault on Asgard was clever, wasn't it?” I say. “I don't think I could have orchestrated better. Now listen, because this is important. Our enemy is smart and a smart enemy won't enjoy being yoked to an imbecile such as Thanos. Why, I bet you my life that the being who commands our enemy's forces will wait to break Thanos's prison until the last possible moment. She—or he, I suppose—will want time first to set the gameboard in her or his favor against the day when a power struggle comes between them. Will you take that bet? My life . . . in exchange for what? Let me think. Oh, I know! The spear, Gungnir. When you come into your throne, having vanquished our enemy, give me the True Spear.”

“You presume that you will be alive and free when this war is over,” Thor says. “I would not make that assumption.”

“Just suppose. You can do that, can't you? Use your imagination. Suppose I am alive and suppose your father pardons me. Either way, right now you are in a very perilous situation. And _yes_ , even more so than mine. You have much to lose. I have . . . nothing. Except my life. Brother, all of your usual methods of war will fail. You are dealing with an enemy unlike any you have faced before, save one. Me.”

Thor mutters wordlessly.

“So I will make you this bet:” I say, “I will help you against her—or him—and if I mislead you you may take off my head. If I prove right, however, and it is through _me_ that the Mighty Thor saves our people, give me Gungnir for my own.”

Thor says, “You keep saying she. You think you know the identity of this enemy.”

“Yes. Isn't it obvious?”

He blinks. “Smirna?”

“Yes. So. _What_ was it you were saying about following the Chitauri to Jotunheim?”

“We must find Smirna,” he says, instead.

“Yes. And how will you do that, O brother mine?”

“I will ask Heimdall.”

“I already tried. Our enemy has hidden herself from him, just as I can. Smirna is no sorceress; I suspect she has found some ally through her new master. Probably the Other—a sorcerer with whom I, as it turns out, am _intimately familiar_.”

Thor sighs. “I don't suppose Smirna is on Jotunheim.”

“Please. Whatever would she need go to Jotunheim _for_? The Frost Giants are already Thanos's bedfellows. She's won the first battle. She'll _expect_ that we honorbound Asgardians will blindly traipse after her minions straight into another trap, and she'll give the Frost Giants their revenge in the process. I _bet_ the sons of Laufey are all but wetting themselves in anticipation for your fleet. They're probably setting their ambush now, preparing to slaughter what's left of us when you lead your army to Jotunheim hoping to find Thanos.”

He glares.

I give him time to surrender with dignity.

Thor says, “And what would the _Nameless One_ have us do?”

“Find Smirna. Obviously. I'd go to the Fringe. I've got connections there. _You_ remember. I know people who can put me in touch with other people who breathe secrets in my ear. For the right price. But—oh. We can't go as ourselves, of course. You can just imagine how the ruffians of the Fringe would take to Shining Prince Thor and his supposed-to-be-dead companion. But again, I can help you with that.”

Thor frowns at the floor—then at the ceiling. Anywhere that he doesn't have to look me in the eye.

“Don't despair,” I say around the wall pressing against my left cheekbone. “There is an art to defeat. And from art, beauty. I should know.”

“How?” he snaps. “You have never been defeated.”

That makes me laugh. “War Academy, Two Flame Valley, the Rainbow Bridge—”

“I _stopped_ you. Believe me, you would know the difference. You wouldn't brag of real defeat.” Thor broods into space. At last his shoulders sag. “I will tell the War Council of our plan. Tyr will be in charge while we are gone. I will enlist a warband from the most elite warriors we have to guard you while we—”

“Good idea. The War Council will kill me and arrest you for helping me. Smirna will be terrified to hear of our downfall. I expect she'll turn herself in.”

“Shut up.”

“You know I'm right.”

The rusty gears in his mind work overtime. He scowls at Mjolnir for a while before nodding to himself. “I will tell the Black Tower Guard. They do not report to Chieftain Tyr.”

I snicker.

“Shut up.”

“I didn't say anything.”

Thor glances up and down the corridor. Oh, is the situation finally starting to kick in? He should have let me do this in my private suite, where no one might happen upon the Crown Prince plotting secret schemes with the deceased Nameless Traitor. Thor murmurs, “All right. Why not the Black Tower?”

I tell him about the spy. Neglecting the part where a spy would have fled Asgard before the Chitauri appeared.

Thor sighs again. “And why should I not tell the Vanir?”

“You may tell the Vanir.”

A triumphant smile surges across his face.

“—If you want them to go scurrying to Odin-King and, in his absence, the War Council.”

Thor gives a grunt of disgust. “And the Dwarves? Let us be thorough, since you have evidently spent a great deal of time preparing to trap me in a corner.”

“Now you're just being irritating. Why do _you_ think you shouldn't tell your instant new best friends the Dwarves that Thanos's missing lieutenant is alive?”

He glares.

I smile.

He looks away.

I say, “I will leave Tyr in command with the instructions—”

“ _I_ will leave him in command.”

I pantomime a shocked councilman: “ 'Why is Prince Thor ordering the War Council, and not his father? Oh, wait, Your Highness—what's that you say? Where _is_ your father? Do you mean to tell us it's all a lie, and we've been taking orders from someone who isn't the Allfather, and you're planning to conspire with the Nameless—' ”

“Shut up!”

We consider each other in angry silence.

I say, “If we leave Mother in charge—”

Thor says, “If I leave Mother in command—”

“—and give her specific instructions not to let Tyr follow the Chitauri to Jotunheim—”

“—I shall ask her to keep our people safe until I return—”

“—nobody has to get rearrested or dishonored.”

At last he lowers his hammer.

I show my not-brother a hearty smile. “So! Are you ready to venture forth into terrifying unknowns in absolute secret with only a dangerous madman at your side?”

“No,” Thor says.

“What? Why?”

Thor says, “First we are going to Midgard.”

“Oh, I see. To deposit your mortal somewhere safer?”

He drops my arm. “Because I need help controlling _you_. And the mortals are not of Asgard.”

“Mortals . . . _which_ mortals?” This is turning out better than I hoped. I make dawning horror lurch up my face. “But—no. You can't. To the _Fringe_?”

“Yes.”

“We're going to take your mortal warband to the Fringe? On Niflheim? A fog enshrouded realm of murderers and anarchy? The Avengers would sooner kill me than help us—”

“I will not let them,” he vows.

I believe him.

Thank you, Thor.

. . . because _now_ I have a group with a vested interest in keeping me alive.

 


	22. Reunion, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments. You guys rock :D

New York is different from the last time we were here. The summer heat percolates through a bustling mad hive stuffed with young and old crawling from th Underground to offices, eateries, taxis. They are busy again with sports, television, the stock market. They are content to imagine that the Chitauri never brought their city to its knees. They, like the Aesir, are happy to forget I ever existed.

Actually, I see as we walk deeper into the crowded streets, that isn't true. Little shrines decorate the odd building side. Fresh flower wreaths spill from the corners of gloomy alleyways. Pictures and paper notes carpet low walls like concert posters in memorandum for the dead: firefighters, police officers, civilians.

Thor stoops to set a ceramic flowerpot right side up, because he wants to revel in my humiliation.

“I thought we were going to talk to Stark,” I say. I'm hanging back, outside the alley. “Why aren't we talking to Stark?”

“Shut up, Loki.”

“You shouldn't call me that. At least think up a pretend name. You can't go around calling me the Nameless Wretch, either.” It makes me nauseous standing here with Asgard's ruin so close in my mind. There's a sickly trail connecting the faces on the walls to the souls buried in floating debris a realm away, searing like a live wire through my head. Pressure rises in my chest. My throat spasms. My heart breaks into a sweat. If I keep talking, maybe I can shut everything from my mind. “I like your jacket.”

Thor fixes me with a glare I'm certain he hopes will scald my blood.

I say, “Kind of a nice break from the astrium plate armor.”

“Keep talking,” Thor vows, “and I will nail your tongue to the wall beside these flowers.”

“What's with all of this violence against my tongue?”

We return to the main street at arms' length from each other. Thor enters the mortal sea flowing from an intersection, yanks me along, then growls, “You are going to get us caught.”

A car zips past.

I roll my eyes.

He says, “Why are you doing this?”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You are still _you_. Change your shape.”

The sea breaks at the pavement's corner. Yellow taxis and a hideous cubical automobile squeak to a stop. Thor starts forward across the street, grabbing my shoulder in a witless attempt to keep me safe, as if I don't know what a zebra crossing is.

I shake him off. “The trick about hiding in plain sight lies in using the observer's prejudice against them. A lovely smile goes a long way.” So does curly blond hair and a small beard. I'm trying to irritate Thor, not give Midgard a chance for revenge. My humorous Midgardian shirt and small wheeled suitcase are just to heighten the effect. It feels shockingly good not to be trapped behind Odin's guise after so long.

“Please will you take up another disguise,” Thor says. “You lose your bet if we end up in a dungeon.” He evidently spies our destination through the human swamp, as he turns his back on me without another word and wades bullheaded through traffic. I stroll after him. We met again as Thor is buying four kabobs from a vendor who then spends an incredulous few minutes in argument with him because my dear brother cannot comprehend that a seller of meats does not also provide mead as an accompanying drink. Thor drags me to a metal bench beside a costume jewelry stand. We share formal truce in the oldest warrior's tradition . . . with Coca-Cola.

“You're not going to like that,” I say.

“Shut up.” After a hilarious moment where he can't figure out how to open a fizzy drink, Thor pops the tab and lifts his Coca-Cola on high. He solemnly intones, “Let us fight arm in arm and revel in the blood of our enemies. May they die at our feet without mercy. May we leave a river of tears in our passing, that widows and orphans fear our names for all eternity.”

I raise my can in salute. “To death and glory.”

“We shall make our ancestors proud.”

“. . . _Yours_ , at least. I think mine would disown me all over again if they knew I was conspiring to save the Aesir.”

Thor takes a long pull from his can and then spits dark liquid across the pavement.

“Told you.”

He holds his fizzy drink at arm's length. “What _is_ this foul elixir?”

“It was better a couple of centuries ago, when they made it with real cocaine.”

“Jotun piss.” Thor takes a shorter pull, grimaces but keeps it down. “What is cocaine?”

“Oh? You should tell Jane that you want to try it, when we get back to Vanaheim.”

His shoulders slump. In an instant he goes from staunch warrior to lovelorn wretch, brooding at the puddle by our feet. “She is in danger on Vanaheim. I do not understand why she refused to return with us to Midgard.”

This is not the topic I would have preferred to discuss while we finish drinking to our truce, but since he brought it up I don't mind hunting through this mess for his weaknesses. “She is a sorceress surrounded by technology _millennia_ ahead from her own. Of course she didn't want to come back. You probably gave her the best wedding present in the history of Midgard, showing her around Nibelung's flagship.”

“I thought she might find the star charts interesting. She likes pictures of stars. And—brother, Jane is not yet my wife.”

“Really? Well, you had better wed her soon. She won't be around much longer.”

“We have time.” It is more a statement for reassuring himself than an argument. He chokes down another swig.

I say, “We didn't really have a chance to talk during our flight to Svartalfheim. I mean, while you were unconscious because that Dark Elf cracked you in the head and then you woke expecting me to take advantage of your prone state by chucking you over the side into the water so you sat up and immediately tried to kill me—”

“You had not given me cause to trust you,” Thor says.

“In any case, what I wanted to tell you was this: your life with Jane will pass in a heartbeat. You're telling yourself it will be a good long time, that going into this knowing that you're going to lose her will make it easier. It won't. When it happens, her death will come upon you fast. You'll never be ready.”

Thor glares at me. “Does it satisfy you to see me in your predicament?”

“Satisfaction is not in my nature.”

“Surrender is not in mine.” He sets down his can. “I will love Jane tomorrow and a hundred years from now. I defy the Fates. I will be hers for all the time we are allowed.”

“And after? When you put on black and stand by the worm-filled hole she's lowered into—will it be love in your heart, then, or something else?”

His hard expression melts. Thor glances at his hands, and falls silent.

I pull my last kabob apart in small, fibrous sections.

He says, “I was at Henry's funeral. I stayed in the back, so you wouldn't see me.”

A knot lurches up my throat. “Did Father know?”

“Truly? I do not think so. You became so very good at hiding your movements, even from Heimdall. But who can say what Father knew or didn't know? He never mentioned it.”

“Perhaps he gave up trying to get me to be respectable. He grew less horrified with my choice of bedfellow as time wore on.”

Thor makes a noncommittal noise.

I wrinkle my nose. “Ha ha, Mother wonders what is wrong with us. You have to admit there is a certain pattern. I understand _my_ excuse; what's so wrong to you about the Aesir? Or Vanir?”

Thor snaps, “Loki, our realm is in pieces and you want to talk about women.”

“Doesn't have to be women.” I leer.

He grinds his teeth.

I say, “But you should tell Jane you wish to go to a club, I think she would enjoy that.”

“I shall tell her,” he agrees somberly. “I wish to go to a club and try cocaine.”

I snort into my drink.

Thor pats my shoulder. Some of the world's long bitterness flees underground. We aren't fully friends again—I suspect nothing could ever do that—but we are at peace.

Thor says, “Loki?”

“Call me something else. What?”

“What is cocaine?”

“It's . . . a kind of sweet.”

“A sweet?” he says.

“Yeah, like sugar. Only you have to smell it instead of eat it, because it doesn't taste sweet at first. Just keep smelling it. Smell lots and lots of it.”

His honest handsome face wrinkles. “Loki?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

 

Thor raps on the sliding door into Stark's penthouse and gives its owner a friendly wave through the glass. Stark pushes the door open but he frowns at my not-brother. I'm lurking in the shadows for the moment, so it's him that Stark addresses. “Don't tell me you guys blew it.”

Thor's eyebrows raise. “I do not understand.”

Stark slouches against his doorframe. “Your dad stopped by. He told me you guys were planning an invasion against something terrible and if you failed we were all going to face an Apocalypse worse than your demented brother.”

Thor blinks twice. “He did?”

“Yep. Well, first he let himself into my private property to eat my ice cream and watch Fight Club, but eventually he got around to it.”

“He told you of Vorsgard?”

Stark says, “My TV is stuck on either some movie channel or HBO, which I don't even get. I had to order a new one. Your dad owes me for a TV.”

Thor glances at me.

Stark says, “Oh, and he also said that if you guys completely failed—like you did, I'm guessing—you'd come back and we'd all have to beam up with you to save the universe. Or something. I dunno. Some unimportant-sounding small talk. Do you take after your mother? Because to be honest I don't see the resemblance.”

Thor's gapes at him. Then he says to my shadow, “You told him this?”

Stark cranes to look. I choose that moment to sidle into the sunlit walkway and watch Stark's face goes grey as a corpse.

Here's how I'm going to turn my gaolers into allies: expression polite, eyes focused, posture keen but relaxed, hands resting in a military _at ease_ behind my back. I've kept the blond hair but exchanged the humorous shirt for what passes in West Midgard as outdoors-casual. This little bundle of lies is named Good Loki, and he is a clever but submissive fellow who is happy that his superior officer is his idiot brother.

Good Loki says, “Good morning, Mr. Stark.”

Stark says on his exhale, “Your dad said he was dead.”

Good Loki adopts an embarrassed smile. “Well, actually, _I_ said I was dead. I am a shapeshifter . . . and, in truth, a double-agent.”

“Loki is a master of magic,” Thor growls. I don't think he knows what a double-agent is. If he did, he would have sprayed herbicide on that little seed I planted.

“Christ,” Stark says.

I cough politely. “I thought we agreed I'm the other one?”

“Okay. _That_ conversation makes so much more sense now.”

“Doesn't it?”

Thor eyes me warily. “What have you done?”

Good Loki neatly clasps his hands together, stands up straight, and says, “I warned them. Your Highness, with your permission I think Mr. Stark deserves to know the truth about my involvement with the Chitauri as a double-agent.” This is all for show, so I don't wait for an answer before addressing Stark. “I infiltrated the shadow organization responsible for the New York attack. I'm very sorry about the lives lost. Would it be all right if the Prince and I come in?”

Stark gapes at Thor. “Is he serious?”

“Loki speaks true,” Thor says.

“Oh god.”

I fight to maintain the benign expression against what I can feel prying at my cheekbones.

Thor sets his shoulders. “I apologize, Man of Iron. Your realm, as well as every other realm in the World Tree, is in danger. We must find the person responsible and bring her to justice. Loki will lead us to our target, who is also a lieutenant for another . . . being.”

Stark toys with his pockets and wipes his palms on his thighs, staring at me. He looks at Thor, who nicely holds his gaze. Stark shakes his head the way a drunkard might to throw off the beginnings of a hangover, then glances at me, fumbles at his pockets again, taps his fingers together.

Good Loki says, “I understand this is quite a shock.”

“No. No. _Shock_ is an understatement. This is insane. Thor, your brother is a—”

“Double-agent,” I insist.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he says to our beloved prince.

Good Loki holds out a hand. “He didn't know. If it makes you feel any better, I _did_ tell you—when you taunted me about my 'pissing off' your Avengers being a guarantee that I would fail in conquering Earth. I said, 'That was the plan.' I meant it. I even opened the play in Stuttgart by raving about 'freeing the world from freedom'—I'm surprised your SHIELD let me get away with that theater language; I thought I was being obvious enough someone would have picked up on it without blowing my cover. After, I waited for anyone to interrogate me but you only seemed interested in poking me with a stick and keeping me at arm's length.”

Stark scrubs a palm into his eyes.

I say, “Don't feel too bad. My own brother did not bother to question me, either. Our father the King debriefed me above his head.”

Thor refocuses the conversation and gives me an irritable side-eye. “You and the other Avengers must accompany us to the Fringe. It is a derelict country in a hostile realm. Loki has contacts in that place who may be able to help. You must not take vengeance upon him. Loki is a devious worm, but he is not currently our enemy.”

Stark mutters, “I'm gonna call the others.”

“Please,” Good Loki says.

“They're not gonna be happy to see you.”

Good Loki raise a sardonic eyebrow. “Given the circumstances, I won't be precisely thrilled to see them.”

He examines me for a long moment, looks at Thor, and finally pushes his sliding door wide. Stark retreats, beckoning us to follow.

Good Loki says, “I'm sorry I broke your telly.”

Stark takes refuge behind his bar while rattling off instructions to his invisible servant. My not-brother seats himself on the couch and pulls me after. I make myself the embodiment of quiet charm: smoothing my clothes, sitting with one leg hooked across the other. Hands in my lap. Calm. Well-behaved. Deferential.

Thor leans close to say into my ear, “When we have Smirna, I will return you to Vanaheim and ask these mortals to speak at your trial.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“I do you no favor.”

“Of course not. I would not accept favoritism, even from you.”

His eyes narrow. He suspects a trap, but he can't see the angle I'm playing. He would never comprehend why I might render myself utterly helpful unless I'm trying to goad him. I hide behind Good Loki even when his mortal warband arrives and Barton sticks an arrow under my chin. Good Loki waits for Thor to defend him, which Thor does. Then Romanova tries to crack my mind. This is absolutely fun: her persona leads my persona into a ditch and, when she is finished pulling apart poor innocent loyal Good Loki, Barton allows, “You know I'm all about second chances . . .”

“Okay.” Romanova gives me a sharp nod.

“Loki will keep his word.” Thor drops a heavy hand upon my shoulder. He squeezes. I wonder if he thinks his warband has accepted his order not to kill me because they respect him. I almost feel sorry for Thor.

I did warn him, though. The trick about hiding in plain sight is using an observer's prejudices against them.

 


	23. Playing Pretend

Explaining all that has transpired since our last escapade together takes the better part of six hours. Good Loki is careful to praise Thor's endeavors which Bad Loki would rather sneer at, but with Romanova listening I can't so much as angle my words away from bold heroism toward fool-hearty oblivious arrogant assery, which is obviously the correct interpretation. She would notice. Thor paces back and forth while I describe my meeting with his father on Svartalfheim and my failed efforts to keep Asgard from imploding. I restate that I tried to forge an alliance to preemptively counteract Thanos's effort to win realms to his cause.

Thor mutters confirmation of all this. I've made certain not to say anything that he could leap on to contradict, which is important.

If I am brought back to trial on Vanaheim I will be executed; there is no way around that. Whether I'm helpful or not, truthfully the inescapable fact that I have impersonated the High-King without his permission during wartime is all the justification the Aesir need to have me torn limb from limb. They've been wanting a reason to destroy me for centuries, and here it is. So my plan to escape Thor and his friends after finding Smirna is two-part.

Firstly, I'm careful to accidentally let Good Loki slip just the _right_ sigh behind words like “glorious battle” or a half-eyeroll that he doesn't quite catch in time. I have to get this part right. I have to be sure Romanova sees Good Loki's agitation without making his little tells so obvious that they look conscious, especially while he's explaining the politics behind the Elves' betrayal.

Oh, he makes Asgard look innocent, all right. For now. He doesn't tell them about Bor, and he doesn't use the word _empire_. The mortals have got to think they're fighting for their innocent peaceful allies against the Elves' underhanded grab for power. The complexities will come later.

Here is phase two in my escape plan: after Good Loki has proven himself to be decent fellow with a roguish streak, who fights for the greater good but hates authority, Asgard will be revealed as the totalitarian fascist regime it is. Asgard will look bad and—by extension—so will Thor. In contrast, my dislike of regulations will appear to be in the right and my opposition to the throne will make me come out favorably in their minds. Especially because, right now at the start, good Loki keeps using the honorarium _Allfather_ when referring to Asgard's ruler. The All-Father, mortals, whose word is unquestionable law. Thor's democratic friends will defend me against their own warleader, and he'll be forced to either let me escape or lose his friendship with Midgard.

In spite of all my careful preparations, it isn't Romanova or Barton I'm worried about. Stark seems to spend the entire debriefing paying me and his warband not the least attention expect to ask detailed technical questions about interstellar and pan-dimensional travel, or make jokes about going to beat up Tolkein. Rogers doesn't like me and doesn't like that his warband is willing to trust me. He broods in the bar chair behind the others, watching me with his arms crossed, and says nothing at all. Dr. Banner is, most unhappily, absent. Otherwise, I suspect his dumb other self would be the easiest to persuade.

After this is finally done Thor insists that we feast to seal the start of our campaign. Eating together is incredibly trying because not only is the food bad but I loathe almost every person I'm forced to share a table with. However, this is how it comes to be that, if you're ever in New York and go to DeLoge Steakhouse and you look on the right-hand wall under the picture of the immensely large man who has eaten an entire 72 oz steak, you'll see a picture of me.

 

* * *

 

IN THE BEGINNING there was fire and there was ice. The fire came exploding from Muspelheim, Realm of Heat, to meet the dead ice searing out from the cold shores of Niflheim: Realm of Darkness and Mist. From this merging in the great Gap sprang forth all life in the cosmos. Yours. Mine. Thor's. The Mortals of Midgard.

Fire, and ice.

Jotunheim may be bitter ice, but Jotunheim is not like Niflheim. Jotunheim is only one world among many birthed by this Celestial Union: fire and ice, chaos and order, unmade and made. Niflheim is not a world. It is a place that exists at the edge of Nothing.

Niflheim boarders raw chaos. From Niflheim's tallest snow-capped peak one can see the light of Chaos licking above the horizon. There is no sun to warm Niflheim's fog-smothered brow, so the only illumination comes from a nearby spiral galaxy. The Fires of Chaos create a lensing effect across the galaxy's face, warping its light into a wide blurry ring. Morning rises above the mists as a heatless milky glow. Below, spreading out across the luckless realm's hostile terrain, is a frosty wasteland buried in perpetual mist and razor-edged ice crystals.

My world-gate drops us into a snowbank. I cast warming charms on our party as we struggle to claw our way out. Thor grabs my arm.

“I like not this place you have brought us to,” he says. “This mist could conceal an army. If you have betrayed us—”

I conjure up a wounded scowl. “I am sorry you no longer trust me, Brother. No, I have not betrayed you.”

“Your word means nothing.”

“I vow it. Hear me now, Thor son of Odin: I swear an oath that I spoke true and will no more set myself as your enemy.” I grasp the hand grabbing my coat sleeve, and stare him in the eye. “I swear that upon Hallormr, Halldór, and Hallveig. May the souls of the dead bear witness to my words.”

Surprise melts the harsh shadows from his face. Thor searches my eyes for any glint that I am lying; that rather than professing honor for the first time in a centu—four years—I have just sworn deceit upon my own children.

I make sure to give him none.

Stark pushes between us. “Guys? I'm getting some weird readings.”

“Trouble?” I demand without breaking my staring contest with Thor.

Stark casts a few spells at the shrouded heavens, mutters to himself, then says, “Is there a singularity up there?”

“It is the Gap,” Thor agrees. His shoulders relax. He looks at the mortal.

“What?” Romanova brushes snow from her jumpsuit, then stares at her hands—oh, is the snow not cold? My, my. Isn't knowing a sorcerer nice?

Stark says, “There's a black hole up there. Hey, uh, Bottle-Blonde?”

I honor him with my attention.

Stark says, “Are we going to get caught in a gravitational time dilation while on this place?”

“No, some of us actually have modern technology.”

Stark begins wandering in a circle, staring upward. The rest of the mortal warband spreads out to secure our pocket in the fog. Barton kicks at a suspicious air hole in the snow that turns out to be nothing, then grouches, “Does it bother anyone else that we can breathe?”

Stark casts a spell to make his eye-catching faceplate disappears in whirring machinations. Underneath, he's wearing an expression that is half deep thought and half barbed wire. “And that opens up all kinds of questions. Is the atmosphere Earth-like or are we just in an alternate dimension? Or did someone terraform everything? Also, why are my readings telling me it's seventy-two degrees outside when it looks like minus-sixty?” He falls silent as Thor rallies us forward and we push into the fog, following my memory though an ethereal sea that blots out all land and sky. The ground is tough as marble due to the Helish temperature, but rather than provide reassurance this fact makes me acrophobic. How many frozen meters slumber between the crust and whatever rock lurks below? A fissure in the ice . . . a weak snowbank . . . and we'll plunge into Fates know what chasms. I had to teleport us away from the city's gates due to fear from being picked up on anyone's scrying scope. Except for the mad and the monstrous, nothing lives on the Fringe of Niflheim's wastes. What lives in the heart of Niflheim's wastes does not bear thinking about.

Even alone and unmolested the cold and the blind march infects us with slow poison. A prickling energy overtakes the group as dim shadow-shapes appear and disappear—ice crystals long and sharp as swords, stacked waystones, snow-cracked rocks. The fog is oppressive. To my primal hindbrain, the fog smells like cover. We smell like prey.

A morbid scene waits for us under a glacier's knifelike shelter. Ten skeletons lie eviscerated by jagged ice spears, having been staked to the ground and left to die. Opportunists in the years since have stripped their armor, clothing, and whatever goods the murderers left behind. None took the time to burn them.

“Jotnar,” Thor names the murderers, overly careful to say this without emotion. My lip curls.

Romanova pauses to examine the site. “What's a Jotnar?”

“Frost Giants,” Thor explains. “A long time ago.”

We pass the skeletons and I can't shake a crawling feeling in the back of my throat. Those uncremated skeletons will be me, some day. I no longer harbor any rose-tinted ideas that Thor or Asgard will send me off in a fire—even if I should honor myself by dying in battle, which is unlikely. If I don't die in Thanos's dungeon or on Asgard's execution block I will go out alone and unmourned some place else, wherever my carcass happens to be at the time. Surrounded by spoils, probably, and despised by everyone I've come into contact with.

A snowball explodes against the back of my head.

I crane around, stupefied.

“Loki,” Thor warns, beside me.

Snow crumbles from my hair down my back. Barton stares at me, hard-lipped. Stark, however, is looking in precisely the opposite direction. I enchant snow to smack him in the face.

“Hey!” Stark scrapes his eyes clear.

“Yes?”

“ . . . Do magic again.”

I can't now that he's _asked_ , so I merely face forward again.

“Loki,” Romanova says.

“Yes?” This time as Good Loki, who uses his professional voice.

“Should we be concerned about ambush before we reach the Fringe?”

“Not before. Prince Thor, Captain Rogers, with your permission I suggest that you allow me to conceal your team with magic once we reach the gates. Just until we can find better camouflage at an outfitter's. No offense, but astrium armor and a gold-and-crimson mechanical man will attract more attention than we need.”

“Says the Terror of Stuttgart,” Stark says.

“I can pass unseen when I wish.”

“Which is never.”

Thor laughs.

“True,” I allow, “mostly never.”

I turn around to find Rogers at the procession's read. “Captain?”

“Granted,” Rogers says, frowning.

Thor says, “Very well, Loki. You may conceal us.”

“Also,” says Barton, “before we go sniffing around a criminal haven, who is it we're going to meet? Somehow you missed that part.”

“An oracle,” says Thor, because he asked me that already.

“ _The_ Oracle,” I add. Good Loki explains, “ _The_ Oracle. Her temple is on the port's far side. Like the rest of this place she is a strange and dangerous force. She may help us or she may not.”

“Rather like someone I know,” Thor grumps.

Bad Loki smiles.

Some minutes later the fog is split by greasy yellow light. The Fringe emerges from grey-white mire, huge and ancient, less than fifty meters ahead. Its yellow search beam glares from a reinforced tower above the patchwork metal gate. The gate and titanic armored perimeter wall rises thirty meters high, guarded by a dozen energy turrets.

We take refuge behind a snow dune. Thor and I share a glance and he says, “My friends, prepare yourself. The effect of this magic is unpleasant.”

Several heartbeats later we are six Alfr mercenaries. I've worked our colors and emblems into our illusionary armor for identification purposes. There is some obnoxiously childlike prattle as Thor's mortal friends rediscover each other and test my work by firing their pretend weapons . . . at one another's heads.

“You missed!” Stark jeers.

Barton hefts his plasma rifle. “I did not. You're cheating.”

“Nuh-uh. I killed you first.”

Thor interrupts, “Loki has disguised us as the enemy, so look well at what surrounds you. Should you see any of this shape besides the brothers and sister at your sides you must signal at once.”

Romanova has been exploring her illusion's gear with an empty shark-like stare. She now directs a sweet-eyed look at me, which I take to mean that she's been trying to figure out how I might be plotting betrayal and thinks she's found a hole in my sheep's clothing. “Is there anything we should know for maintaining cover? Or breaking cover, if we happen to meet with other friendlies?”

“We do not expect to meet with friends,” Thor says.

Romanova says, “In the event that we do, is there a way to deactivate this without relying on Loki?”

Ah. Does she fear I would turn them into the enemy and then leave them to be captured and executed by our own side? That sounds . . . well. Very much like me. I'm flattered. Good Loki gives a little cough and says, “The spell is tethered to your central mass. I'm afraid unless you are sorcerers as well—real sorcerers, not technomages—there is no way to deactivate it. Say as little as possible until we reach the outfitter's, at which point I will drop the illusion.”

She watches me from under lowered lids.

Good Loki pretends not to notice. He continues, “As for maintaining cover: Elves have a low center of balance. And try to move as though you have ears on your entire body.”

Being around so many people all at once makes me giddy. It isn't like when I played Odin, because then I had to hide and stay quiet. Being around people who know who I am, and who talk to me— real people who aren't illusions — I'd forgotten what this is like. I want to make the most of this time I've got in between my endless stints in solitary confinement. I'd like to enchant Barton to look like Romanova. I'd like to magic bits of snow to fall down Thor's collar and see how long it takes him to notice.

Instead, Good Loki has to lead my not-brother and his warband from behind our dune to the gate's far left side, where a small personnel airlock is wedged into the wall's interlocking plates. Four guards of varying descents meet us with rifles at the ready. Leather creaks—Thor is clenching a fist around Mjolnir's handle, under his Alfr disguise.

Good Loki conjures a bribe. They let us through.

This is how the Fringe works.

Thor tugs me aside while we're journeying through the long tunnel under the wall. “Where did you get that gold?”

“What __gold__?”

Beyond the second airlock is raw chaos. I drop our warming spells as heat replaces the terrible cold.

“Wow,” Rogers sighs.

The Fringe weaves up and up in a knotted spiderweb of scaffolds that span an ice canyon system twenty kilometers from end to end. The entire city is above groundlevel, in the scaffolding, as buildings built upon buildings—upon other buildings—upon long struts—cram every conceivable nook in both lurid and earthy colors. Homes, storefronts, sellers, buyers, and beggars commingle in a phantasmic display. A writhing, living, real sea buys or trades or steals or argues all around us. A thousand thousand voices blot out the empty Nothing lurking in the back of my head.

I breathe easier.

“Huh. Well. That's settled,” Stark announces. “I'm buying a spaceship.”

“Which way?” Thor demands.

The Blind Outfitter's is tucked inside a burrow halfway up the rickety Second Flea Trench. Its owner is a Dwarf who spares us only a happy nod. The Blind Outfitter is so called because its keeper stocks her floor with everything anyone might need for a quick anonymous transformation—no questions asked. The store is empty, and a back corner in the labyrinthine shop provides enough privacy from even my paranoia that I can dismiss our illusions.

“Dress as mercenaries,” Good Loki commands. “Oh, and brother, find a mask to wear and a weapon that isn't one of the most recognizable icons in nine realms. Mr. Stark, magic your armor into its smaller form and hide it under a cloak.”

“It's called robotics, Gandalf.”

I add, “From here on in, nobody speak my true name. I am known to many in the Fringe, none of whom we wish to meet.”

Barton raises his eyebrows. “Just how many people did you piss off last time you were here?”

“Only the last time?” Smirking, Good Loki taps his heels together in a salute before slipping behind the nearest shelving island. He and I can both hear Thor grouching in the distance, but while my twin counterpart and nemesis is only mildly annoyed that his prince does not appreciate the black market refuse around us, I want to strangle Thor. He is a liability, but not one I can discard. I blow out a breath to steady my nerves, remove my clothes, and change sex. My female shape is a disguise by itself. I've never wandered around the Fringe in my natural shape while female. Satisfied with that base, I go to work picking over the shelves for appropriate wear.

Some minutes later Thor wanders around the corner, now dressed in a good approximation of the outfits worn by people he's spent his military career crushing under his boot.

“I want this coat,” I lament. “A mercenary wouldn't wear this. I suppose I could be a mercenary who does wear this.”

“Do you think that I look like Ragg the Berserker?” Thor gives his new battle axe an experimental swing. “I thought Ragg had good taste in armor.”

“Yeah, a taste for armor and Aesir flesh.” I look him over. “Hold out your arms, let's see about your foray into the make-pretend.”

Thor does and examines himself in the chipped mirror beside me, evidently pleased with the effect. “I think I look like Ragg.”

Good Loki smiles. “Congratulations. You're the universe's most expensive private guard.” I grab the embroidered silk covering his gorget and tear.

Thor grabs my arm. I roll my eyes at his betrayed expression.

I say, “The idea is to be realistic, not perfect . A perfect illusion isn't believable. Have good and bad happen to you. You've got nice armor, and now it's _old_ nice armor.”

Thor's eyes narrow. But he stares at my arm trapped in his fist. “Where did you get that mark?” Oh, goody, he's found my odd caved-in what-the-hell scar. The one on my forearm I don't remember receiving. The one that probably predates the Chitauri, since they—for the most part—don't leave visible marks.

Thor says, “Is this magic?”

“No.”

“Are you certain? It does not look like any injury I have ever seen.”

“Yes, I'm certain. Of the two of us, which one is actually a sorcerer?”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Keeping my right arm imprisoned, he prods the bullseye wound with his free hand.

I sneer. “Ooh, that doesn't hurt at all. Disappointed?” Actually, it isn't until this moment that I realize I've still got feeling in the scar. You'd expect a wound that's severe enough it's deformed my arm to either sting from permanent nerve damage or feel dead as ice. Mine feels . . . normal.

Thor says, “That does not hurt? When we return to Vanaheim I will have Eir look at this.”

“I'm flattered you care.”

Thor drops me. “I am only concerned because you were a captive for a long time. I would feel better knowing what it was and that you are not being used still by Thanos—by your will or against it.”

A chill worms down my spine. I back away from him and paste a smile on my face. “Well, you're in luck. It's not magic. See? Magic would burn or corrupt. Remember Kurse?”

Thor does not look convinced.

I snap, “Find a mask and we'll call your disguise complete.” I banish the blonde-color from my hair and walk around the corner to where the mortals are digging through arms racks like children at Midsummer Fest.

Barton and Romanova have a quiet zen thing going on sifting through blades, plasma blades, cursed arrows, personal shields, energy polearms, and firearms. Aww. Adorable. Stark is hovering around a chipped balloon-print breakfast table which he's dragged off to one side, hard at work dismantling an energy bomb. Rogers alone is ignoring the weaponry to watch a holo-book about Bor's Conquest, which is making a line form between his brows. I leave all the arms stuff for my not-brother to critique, and supervise the final touches on their costumes. Barton and Romanova look perfect, which I am annoyed surprises me, Rogers is passable, and . . .

“You look like an inbred city guard,” I inform Stark. I toss him a chest plate. “Put this on instead of the cuirass.”

Stark looks up with a barb visibly readying itself on his lips—but falls silent. He untangles himself from his armor with no objections at all and even lets me assist in sealing him in good plate. I assume he's just caught up fondling the bomb's scattered components until I notice his eyes lingering on my chest.

“What time do you get off work?” Stark says.

He doesn't recognize me in this shape. That makes me unspeakably happy.

I quickly dredge up the most obnoxiously feminine simper imaginable. “Any time for you, darling. But what happened to your Miss Potts? Not that I mind being—”

Stark recoils as if I've burned him. “ _Who are you?_ ”

“The sorcerer who brought you to Niflheim.”

He stares at my face. “Oh. Oh, God, no.”

Smiling from ear to ear, I spell together his left pauldron and leave him there—hopefully stewing on a preview of his nightmares for the evening: me in _any_ shape. 

A few minutes later we reconvene to make our purchases, and the mortals have gone from goggling at a molecular destabilizer, children's toys, religious pamphlets, and propaganda, to goggling at yours truly.

“. . . Why?” says Barton.

“Just for you.” I take a breath.

Rogers interrupts, “Are you a woman? He calls you 'brother', so I assumed—”

“No, I am neither. I am a shapeshifter.”

Rogers says, “How would you like to be addressed?”

“Now? As a woman. You may call me Aedoa. And, Brother, you must choose another name for yourself.”

“He looks like Bane,” Stark says. “Can we call him Bane?”

I say, “Bane is a good name for a mercenary.” Thor's faceplate is a dark bronze contraption that serves to obscure him from neck to eyes. Ten white knobbly straps secure the device around his head. “I think he looks like a Midsummer Roast.”

“Shut up . . . Aedoa,” says the Roast.

Stark says, “And, also, _Aedoa_? Did you get that from your unused Scrabble pieces? I am never going to remember that, and I usually make an effort for at least a few hours.”

“Sif,” Thor suggests.

“Sif I can do,” Stark agrees.

“ _Not_ Sif,” I say.

Of course Thor ignores me to address Stark. “And thank you for the suggestion, Tony Stark, but I shall be called Erik to honor a friend who is absent.” Because _Thor_ gets to choose his own name. But Good Loki wouldn't argue with her beloved prince, so I can only shrug and pay for our accumulated lies with more illusioned gold. Afterward, once Erik and his band are safely preoccupied tailing an important-looking man who “might lead us to the Oracle”—

—I abandon them to find a street Healer.

 


	24. In The Fringe

Street Healers are easy to find in the Fringe, although they are illegal in the World Tree at large. The Fringe has no central government to provide a Healing Tower, so war refugees, the disenfranchised, the desperate, and those unlucky enough to be birthed in this place must seek out medical attention from derelict mages hocking their unverifiable abilities for extortionate prices.

The Healer's office I select is perched at the end of a relatively clean alley. There is a black snake engraved into the office's brass front door, which is why I chose this Healer over his or her countless rivals. Perhaps I'm being overly superstitious, or paranoid, but Loki the Snake can use all the extra luck she can get.

A mobile made from bones dangles from an iron hook just above the door. The bones are supposed to be a ward against evil spirits, but I disprove that when I pry up the retracting door and slip into the simple, bare-faced establishment.

The office is a poor but shining affair, all polished silver metal and glass. No privacy dividers shield any one patient from being seen by another, so all who use this establishment must do so publicly. The Healer's thrall looks up from a fraying green rug on her master's floor, where she sits poking at a luminescent display. She is about sixteen years old, Jotun somewhere in her murky ancestry, and despite that I am the only client in the entire room she spares me just the barest glance before calling out, “Good afternoon my lady, sir, or friend. Today is luck for you. No wait.”

“What specialities does your master treat?” I say.

“Madam helps for all minor and major discomfitures.” She flashes pointed Svartalfr teeth. “Please that you stand in the warded corner—it has the black tape—if that you are contagious. You will not be coming ill from anyone else in the warded corner, but I must ensure for that you comply.”

She says this even though there _is_ no one in the warded corner. Charming.

I say, “What about problems that are not, technically, physical ailments?”

“If you are contagious I must ensure—”

“I am not contagious.”

The girl looks back at her screen. “If that my lady, sir, or friend needs a potion for to end the pregnancy, Madam has one in supply. Shall I tell her this or fetch?”

“I suffer from nightmares,” I say. “And . . . other things. Of a similar nature.”

“For would sir, my lady, or my friend like a good-dreams potion? Madam has one also.” Tap, tap, tap go the girl's thick-boned blue fingers. “I am pleased that she has authorized me for to bring it to you.”

“No, I tried that. I woke up the next morning hallucinating. No potions.”

The thrall prods her display again. She enters data and waits for a command. I can see a cheap copper band on her left wrist, which marks her status, but from where I am I can't see how many years she has left in service. Text flashes. The girl looks up. “How must my friend, sir, or lady be addressed?”

“Aedoa. And _my lady_ is fine.”

The girl falls silent. A few minutes later I am waved into a cramped adjoining room where the Healer, an Alfr witch with delicate lacy tattoos on her forehead and eyes so pale to be almost white, asks for what becomes a heavily edited version of my story.

“You take other potion besides sleep aid?” the witch demands, after.

“No,” I tell the ceiling, which is sagging into a giant bulging pustule in the center and riddled with peeling cracks.

“How about mind enhancement? You take?”

“No. No other potions, no recreational amusements.”

“Lying?”

“Not currently.”

She gives me a side-eye. Then the witch has me lie back and casts her spells to map my energy pathways. She picks apart my body strand by strand, remaking my image as a glowing celestial array above my head. “You know, other magic in your system will act badly with a potion.”

“Yes, I was told as much. Say! By the way, you don't happen to have any news from the World Tree at large? A barkeep told me there's a war on. My husband was Alfr; if they're in trouble I'd like to join with their ranks. Any idea where I might find someone to transport me off this dungheap to Her Majesty's forces? I'll pay—”

“No, no. Don't care about politics. Only war I know was Jotunheim.”

It was worth a shot.

The witch applies several filters to my spectral double, frowning as I am rendered again and again in the same unblemished white light. She says, “How much are you Aesir? I see new bone growth on your left forearm. Was this a fracture?”

“Earlier today.”

“Heals good. You lucky one. Aesir blood not usually pass into mix offspring.”

“Yes. How about that.”

She switches filters, switches again.

I say, “There's a mark on my right arm. I know it's not magic. Do you know what might have caused that?”

“Let's see.”

I hold my arm aloft. She grips my wrist, flexes my arm, peers at the bullseye scar. “No, not magic. Looks congenital.”

“It's not congenital. Could poison have done this? Or some kind of acid? Could I have been implanted with anything?”

She huffs. “Poison, maybe. No implants, I don't see anything. It hurt?”

“No.”

“That's good. It could be a bite.”

“What kind of bite?”

She drops my arm to switch filters, and doesn't reply. She switches again. And again. The next time, her white array turns deep blood red. The witch sucks in a breath through her teeth.

Cold lances up my spine. “What is that?”

She looks down at me.

“Well?” I demand.

The witch pauses. Her colorless eyes are dark with guarded fascination. I'm beginning to hate that look among the healing community. “Did your parent fail at conceiving before they had you?”

“I have two older siblings.”

“Brothers? Maybe they wanted a girl?”

I curl my lip. Jotnar, as I'm certain you've already guessed, do not come in male and female pairs. My real body, somewhere inside this much prettier outer skin, contains both sexual characteristics. In late puberty I learned to alternate which set is expressed, and Odin's glamor compensated by rendering me as either fully male or fully female. I say, “Not particularly.”

The witch chews her tongue. She traces a bright point on my energy map.

“ _Well?_ ”

She holds up a hand. “Every cell in your body, from your bones to your hair, is completely saturated in magic.”

“I am a sorceress.”

“Not what I mean. You learn magic, magic is used. Magic is not in the body. The body separate. All right? The body built of cells, protein. _Your_ body . . . is built of magic. Your hair. Your fingers.”

“What does that mean?” I snap.

“Someone wanted a child and ask a sage to make her pregnant. Happens.”

My ears are ringing. “What do you mean, it _happens_?”

The witch waves her hands at me. “Don't panic. It mean nothing. Conceived with magic, it make you no different. You not die early, nothing. No difference. Only different in stay away from potion. Yes? That why the potion not work. Use not-magic medicine. Herbs treat headache, pregnancy sickness, good as new. Don't smoke widow's root. All right? Shouldn't smoke widow's root anyway. You see alchemist, ask for sleepy potion with herbs and no magic. You'll be fine.”

Dark spots careen before my eyes. I clutch my head but that doesn't stop the silent implosion happening inside my mind. The room goes into a flat spin.

“You want water? Drink this. Nice slow breaths.”

I accept the paper cup but flinch when she tries to put hands on me. _Magic?_ How could I have been conceived by _magic_?

She's wrong.

The witch backs away. “Someone worked you over real bad, I can tell. Nightmares will last for a while. It get better. Alchemist will help. Keep you calm, help you sleep. Here, I give you name. She take good care of you.” The witch retreats into the other room for a pad, giving me time to master my heart rate.

She's wrong. I was _not_ conceived by magic. She's wrong. Why in Nine Godless Realms would Laufey and his monstrous wife go to such lengths for a third child? They had two grown whelps already. Byleistr and Helblindi both fought in the war. It was Helblindi who put out Odin Allfather's eye.

They did not go to lengths for a third child only to throw him away. That didn't happen. The idea is a crushing weight in my chest so big that there isn't room left over for my insides. When the witch returns I say, “What else?”

“You want?”

“What else could cause that . . . reading?”

“Nothing else cause that reading. Why you angry? Your parent love you. They want you.” She holds out her note on filmy plastine paper, waving it until I snatch it from her grasp.

“What about . . . spells. Curses. Could someone have cast a tracking charm on me? Or a scrying spell?”

“No, no. That also not in the body. Don't worry! It not dangerous. It normal. Rare, but normal.”

I say, “Then could—could conception by magic cause ill effects? Dwarfism. Small stature.”

The witch shrugs. “If not done properly. Perhaps, yes, it could deform. Not make a baby small, perhaps make it simple-minded, or make it not develop a heart or lungs.”

So. Laufey got someone to help him conceive and when the result turned out to be a—

White noise fills my head. I am physically incapable of completing that thought.

The witch says, “She take good care of you,” which is code for _give me my money and get out of my office_.

I say, “Wait! No. Just a moment. My mother used to make me potions when I got sick. I became ill often as a child; I was always . . . weakly. I don't remember ever having trouble with potions.”

“She make with herb, not magic.”

I crack my head flat to the soulforge. There's the trial and sentence. Of course. Frigga and her garden. Frigga the herbologist. Stick me with a flaming Fates-be-damned-to-Helheim _sword_. Frigga must have figured out very fast that her sick little Jotun runt worsened if she tried to treat him with spells. She must have told Eir . . . And _Eir_ . . . because _Odin_ came to her, not _Loki_ . . . Eir gave me a potion laced with magics.

Damn it all.

 _Why_ didn't anybody tell me? They let me poison myself, and before that they let me endure the agony of watching my dreams for War Academy evaporate because my weak Jotun flesh couldn't keep up with my peers as soon as they reached puberty. Fates forbid we _tell_ Loki the truth about anything.

I thank the witch for her time and stuff her note into my pocket. I pay her thrall in false gold, then retreat back into the street's organized chaos. The alchemist is only a short walk away. Forty minutes later I've got enough sleep-aids, relaxers, mood regulators, and anti-psychotics to keep the universe from tipping sideways on me again.

Retracing my steps, I hurry back to Thor's warband before they decide I should spend the rest of our little field trip handcuffed to Mjolnir.

* * *

“Where have you been?” my not-brother demands when I turn up while he and his fellows are stationed around a black marble column in a very fine Dvergr-style eating house, watching their query inhale a multi-course lunch all by himself.

“We had a tail,” I invent. “I convinced them that the mortal warbanded headed South.”

“You lie,” Thor growls.

“Please. Do you remember my oath?”

His fists clench. “I remember many things, your oath among them. You said you would set yourself no more against _me_ , but from—”

“Stop.” Romanova, of all people, slips from a shadow to put a hand on Thor's shoulder. “I followed her. She's telling the truth.”

What.

Oh, well. Only a fool would challenge that cover. I make Good Loki nod at Romanova.

Romanova says, “There were five people in loose red and white robes with some kind of body-fitting armor underneath. I noticed them about two hundred meters back. I'm not sure if they were following our man in there, but I saw Sif break away to engage with them. They headed after her instead. I followed to make sure. She lost them on a street six levels about here.”

Thor smiles at her. Of course he does. “Your skill at stealth is worthy of legend. I did not notice that you had gone.”

Barton says, “What's with the deep mistrust? I thought you said your brother's a double-agent?”

Thor says, “She is,” in a flat voice that tells me he's decided double-agent really does mean _might betray us at the first opportune moment_. “Above all things I trust that this is so.” But then he holds an arm out for me to clasp in resumed truce, so I'm not certain. He doesn't mention my oath again.

In either case, I knock his hand aside. Even Good Loki is not in the mood for whiplash platitudes. I catch Romanova watching me. I keep note and press forward: “Did our query lead you to the Oracle?”

Rogers sets his shoulders. “Not yet.”

“He sits and eats,” Thor complains. “Before that he spoke to some young women and before that he argued with a cartmonger about the slushy ground.”

“You forgot the part where he took a dump,” Barton says.

Romanova meets my gaze. “That's just as well. Sif discovered where the Oracle is, didn't you?” Her tone is polite but frank. Her shark eyes say, _I know you abandoned us_.

Creeeeepy. What is _her_ angle? I make Good Loki smile and nod. “This way.”

They follow me from the eatery into the crowded Upper Marketplace.

Stark says, “When you say Oracle, is the Oracle a prophet?”

“Yes, she is,” says Good Loki, and I start a new topic to distract them from whether I did or did not just tip my hand. “Nothing like Delphi which, believe me, was a disappointment.”

Stark says, “So you guys have been to Earth a lot over the centuries?”

“A lot,” I agree. “Earth is one of the few worlds not part of the political sphere. It's rather a charming vacation spot. Wouldn't you agree, brother?”

Thor makes an irritated noise behind his mask. “I had better things to do than cause trouble bedding married mortal women or attending Midgard's court.”

“Your loss,” I say.

“Which time period was your favorite?” Romanova asks me, I assume in hopes to probe me for answers that have nothing to do with the subject.

I respond to her question with two words.

Stark says, “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I told you the last time we spoke that I had a fondness for Scotland's peoples at that time.”

His eyebrows raise halfway up his forehead. “The Enlightenment? I'd have pegged you for a fan of Versailles.”

I smile. “You must remember: Asgard is an absolute monarchy. I am not the glorious luminary you are struggling to picture, I am a traitor among my own people.”

Thor says, “You are a traitor to our people because you conspired with Frost Giants to break into the weapons vault.”

A sickened weight slithers into my stomach. _He knows_. How?

I force a bemused smile onto my face. “Context is everything, brother.”

“There is no context to defend you.”

“I'm sorry, did you learn that I hadn't sworn myself to Thanos before or after you dragged me before the entire court in chains?”

Thor twists to look away from me. Silence comes between us, and it is not a pleasant silence but one filled with all the terrible things left unsaid. The mortals are quiet, too, and that is even worse.

I need to conjure another distraction.

A sapphire-blue stage wreathed with gauzy curtains looms ahead through the crowd, hosting five performers of varying hues.

I tap Stark's shoulder. “Look at that. To your left. Skógrkind. Magicians who transform themselves into animals. Natural shapeshifters. No illusions.”

As we watch all five metamorphose color and shape. A white-painted man sprouts red antlers as his lower half lengthens into a scarlet quadruped. Beside him, a yellow-painted woman grows iridescent blue feathers across her face which spread down her body and ripple outward into massive bronze wings.

Rogers says, “How many people have magic?”

“Plenty. It's a common enough trait, like being a genius, but some have greater innate ability than others. A few are born beyond-geniuses. For most it takes years of study to do anything more complex than a schoolyard prank. Most don't bother; the penalties for criminal magic usage are steep and generally irreparable. Buying, publishing, selling, or even _possessing_ certain magic texts are enough to warrant life in prison—even if the book's owner has no magic ability at all. The Black Tower Guard does not hesitate to kill renegade magic-users, and those who supply them.” I allow a very thin smile. “As you can imagine, the Fringe is a breeding ground for the Dark Arts. I used to be a spy for the Black Tower, and saw more than my share of grisly punishments. Cast a Pale Spell and you lose a hand. Both hands for sanguine rites. A _master_ sorcerer doesn't need hands to work magic, so the next to go is the tongue.”

“That's why people in the Fringe want to kill you,” Romanova says.

“Many people. Many people, and their apprentices.”

The Skógrkinds' crowd applauds. We move along. The market-goers disperse, some catching sight of the five mortals and staring at them no less than at the shapeshifters.

I say, “The Fringe is a big place full of small circles. When we reach the Oracle's temple you are going to have to defy every biological urge you have and _not_ look at the wonders all around you. The open streets are different—people peer through the masses for each other, goods, and services all the time—but the Temple is private ground. The people who keep track are going to realize that they haven't seen us before, and there can only be so many reasons why not. Are we newborn killers high on our first blood? Are we fifth-rate drones sent on our master's behalf? Or are we undercover?”

Romanova says, “What's our story?”

“ _Our_ story. You and the other mortals are keeping guard outside. Erik and I will be going in alone.”

Thor grabs my arm.

I push him off. “The Oracle's temple is a gateway. She is not on this realm. To reach her you and I will have to travel there, and the process would kill them.”

“Then you should have brought us to that realm,” Thor says.

“Even _I_ can't open a world-gate to a private realm.” I want to leer at the concussed look on his face, but Good Loki turns it into a grim smile. I tell Thor, “If you didn't like that part, you're going to like this even less: to get in the door, you and I will have to pretend we work for something the Fringe won't mind serving. Byleistr Laufeyson, True King of Jotunheim.”

“No.”

I smile. “He sent us here to find out what happened to the Casket which is, of course, _rightfully_ his. He thinks his brother Helblindi might have made a deal with the Elves and double crossed him. Younger brothers do so often double-cross their elders, don't they?”

“ _No_ ,” Thor repeats.

“How do you know that this king hasn't already come to the Fringe looking for answers?” Rogers says.

“Because the Jotnar cannot travel between realms without their Casket.”

“They _have_ the Casket,” Thor says. There's a warning in his voice.

“No, _Smirna_ has the Casket. Otherwise, don't you think the Jotnar would have happily invaded Asgard along with the Chitauri?”

He says, “You did not tell me that.”

“I thought it obvious.” I bite back a grin. “Anyway. You and I are thralls the Jotnar took during the last war. Our noble and much beloved Master Byleistr sent us to the Oracle because our loyalty is absolute.”

Thor turns bright red behind his mask.

* * *

The Oracle's temple is a twisting black glass spire at the canyon's extreme end. Beyond the spire the snowfields extend as silent whitecaps unto the end of the world. The deep cold beyond the wall has been ultimate destiny for many a despairing Fringe-dweller, or losing gang, for millennia. Silhouetted by such bleakness, the Temple is almost friendly.

I have Thor drop his mask and cast an illusion over his face. Our story gets us through four checkpoints, even with my not-brother growling and seething the whole time. Finally, white-clad guards scan Thor's pretend face and mine into a registry and wave us through titanic greening bronze doors into an atrium that smells like a mausoleum. The Inner Guards let us keep our weapons but search us for spells or potions we might be attempting to smuggle through. Afterward, they escort us through a labyrinth as cramped and gloomy as Asgard's dungeon. On the other end is a small yellow-green marble room, lit from every surface. In the room is a medical table and a pedestal bearing a clay chalice and a large silver goblet.

Thor eyes the table with undisguised apprehension.

The door closes behind us.

Thor says, “What now?”

“I drink from the chalice and you guard my body while I'm gone.” I hedge across the room and pick up the goblet.

Thor stumps after me. “Explain.”

A murky reddish-black substance swirls darkly in the chalice, not quite liquid and not quite smoke. I dip the goblet and the liquid flows up into its cup before the goblet connects with the writhing surface. My stomach involuntarily contracts.

Thor says, “What is this?”

I cast him a sidelong smile. “Certainly not Midgardian fizzy drink.”

“What does it do?”

“I'm going to drink it, and then I'll be unconscious for a while. To the world as dead.” My throat starts doing that unhappy gaggy-sweaty thing where I've got to swallow and I don't want to swallow because that might make me sick. I've done this once before, and it's not the taste that troubles me so much as what I know the substance _is_. “You're going to watch over my body until I return.”

“From the Oracle,” Thor says.

“Yes.”

He clamps a hand on my shoulder. “I am going with you.”

“Now isn't the time for foolish bravado.”

He grins. “If you think I will allow you to go alone, you _are_ mad.”

“It's poison, Thor.”

His grin dissolves.

I grimace. “I lied when I said it was a private realm. The Oracle is in Helheim.”

His face turns grey and cold. He takes a step away from me, and the goblet, and the medical table.

I say, “I'm going to drink this and it will separate my soul from my body. I'll have twenty minutes to speak with her and then I must return or I will die. An attendant will bring an antidote after I return.”

He says, “You have done this before?”

“Not an experience I thought I'd have to repeat. You know. Before my final death.”

Thor's lips seal into a hard line.

I say, “I'll say hi to Hel for you. I'm sure she's heard your name quite a lot over the centuries from the feasts going on upstairs.”

Thor sets his shoulders. His arm shoots out. He snatches the silver goblet from my hand and downs the contents like it's mead.

“What did you do?” I yelp, as he smashes the goblet to the antiseptic floor.

“Let none say that I am afraid of Helheim.”

“You great utter buffoon!”

Thor's blue eyes turn glassy. He grips my shoulder again, fingers digging into my coat. His knees buckle. A cold jolt squeezes my chest. I stare down into his fading gaze, watch color drain from his already pale skin. His hand loosens. He slides down my legs and sinks into a puddle at my feet.

I ease my boots out from under his jaw.

The idiot!

I tell him, “If you think I'm going to stay here, you're the one who's mad.” I pick up the dented goblet, dip it a second time, and follow him to Death.

But first I lay down on the medical table.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> Some of you know I've been trying to publish this work as an original novel but because it's still attracting new readers I wanted to post an official notice. The novel is complete (whoohoo!). I'm in the process of querying agents and though it's taking a while I wanted to let everyone know this story is not abandoned.
> 
> Feel free to contact me. In the meantime I'll continue updating this notice as I learn more.


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